


The Bridge of Styx

by cincoflex



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Love, former incestual relationsip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Movie. Edith finds a new mystery and is torn between solving it or moving on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The police report lay buried under the solicitor’s letters, the deeds and land receipt, the hospital bills and the letters of condolence from New York. Edith, who had never before flinched away from piles of paper, kept avoiding this one, moving around it whenever she passed by that corner of the desk.

She couldn’t avoid it forever, of course. It was late spring now, and although the events of the winter were past, and her physical wounds had healed, Edith still felt the aches and anguish deep inside her for all that had happened at Allerdale Hall. She, Edith Shar--, no, she, Edith _Cushing_ had killed a woman. A lunatic to be sure, a monster driven by hateful jealousy and twisted love, but still, that didn’t change the truth of the matter. Lucille Sharpe had died at her hands.

It should have been satisfying to send her father’s murderer to hell, but it . . . wasn’t. Edith knew despite it all her father was just as dead as before, along with Thomas.

Thomas. It still hurt to think of him even now, months later. His dimpled smile; his gentle hands; his unwavering gaze. Edith tried to hate those memories, tried to push them away by reminding herself he’d been an accomplice to murder himself; that he too had broken laws of ethics and morality. He’d even conceived a child in his perverted relationship with her father’s murderer. All of that should have snuffed out her love but the damning truth was it hadn’t. 

Something lost within her still longed for Thomas Sharpe, and at night she lay awake, hoping against hope that his ghost might appear. Just a glimpse, a last look perhaps to lay to rest that flicker in her heart.

But nothing haunted her now, except regret, and pain.

Alan, dear Alan was still at her side, and she owed him a great deal. He wasn’t the sort to press her, especially at the moment, but he’d been getting regular letters from his mother demanding to know when he was returning to America, and although he wanted to stay, it was proving difficult. He’d overextended himself and needed to get back to his practice.

He’d offered to start it in England, but Edith wouldn’t hear of it. “I’m not staying here, but I’m not ready to return to Buffalo just yet.”

A half-lie, but necessary. Edith didn’t think she could face her childhood home again and return to a circle of people ready to judge her tragic circumstances. They would eye the healing scar across her cheek and shudder, would probably whisper among themselves and that, Edith knew, would never end. 

Better to stay here in Carlisle for a while longer and then perhaps go to London. Maybe Paris. Certainly she had the money to do so, with possible a little more when the moldering remains of her brief home could be sold. Various solicitors assured her that Allerdale Hall would be freed for sale very soon, but time kept dragging on.

She stared at the pile, and took a breath. Moving stiffly, Edith settled herself into the cushioned chair and began sorting the papers, making neat piles that could be filed later. Everything related to the Hall in one pile. Bills in another. A third pile for correspondence from home. And finally her fingers touched the thick envelope with the detective’s signature on it. Edith picked it up, feeling her pulse jump. 

There would be nothing here she didn’t already know, Edith reasoned with herself. She’d lived through it all, and knew the worst. There would be mention of Lucille and the other bodies found at the Hall, of the knives and blood and grisly trophies. Diagrams very likely, and maps.

Possibly drawings.

She pressed her lips together. With sudden ruthlessness, Edith scooped up the letter opener, slid it behind the flap and let it slice through the thick envelope. Before her courage waned, she unfolded the pages inside, smoothing them out on the desk, aware of her thumping heart.

The details seemed at odds with the soft spring day outside the study window, the facts in contrast with the sunshine and warmth. The detective’s handwriting was very neat, she noted absently as she reached for her glasses, and read on.

It was all here: Enola’s recordings, the skeletons in the vats, the civil records of multiple marriages, the large cleaver. Edith swallowed, trying not to let her rising gorge spill over as memories flare in her head. She scanned all the way to the end of the report, feeling faint, and near the bottom one line caught her eye.

_n.b. Body of Sir Thom. Sharpe was not found at this time. Further searches will be conducted._

She re-read it three times, each one making her draw in a quick breath.

It didn’t make sense. 

Edith blinked. She looked on the other side of the report, expecting to find an addendum but there was nothing. The detective constable’s signature graced the bottom of the report, along with the date nearly five months earlier. She let the paper drop onto the desk and stared at it.

“Thomas . . .” she murmured, as if saying his name would bring him before her. Nothing of the sort happened, and Edith drew in a calming breath, trying to decide what to do.

An update. There must be an update to the investigation, she realized, and even as she reached for a pen, she paused.

Alan would be the first to tell her to leave it alone. And he had the right to advise her, Edith knew. He’d earned it in blood that night and she’d always be grateful to him. Grateful and glad of his support, of his concern, but despite everything they’d been through together, it hadn’t deepened her affection for him into love. Edith cared for him, cared about him of course, but the deeper bond simply wasn’t there, much as he might long for it. Alan loved her; she didn’t love him back.

And that hurt too. He’d been there most of her life, and through the horrors of the last year, and yet even those events didn’t change matters between them. Edith had been gentle but firm in her rejection of his proposals, and over the last few months Alan had stopped putting them forward, but his longing glances continued. 

Edith shook her head slightly and stared down at the name of the detective constable: Edmund Burton. She vaguely remembered him; a short burly man with a beard and glasses. He’d questioned her at the hospital, his manner respectfully slow. She hadn’t seen him again and suspected Alan had intervened on her behalf. The inquest hadn’t called her, and results of the investigation were clear.

Lucille Sharpe had been declared a mad woman and murderess; had been named as the killer of at least seven persons including her parents and brother. Edith herself had been acquitted of all charges through clear evidence of self-defense. The press had come swarming to Allerdale Hall, trampling through the house until the police had surrounded it with a hastily erected fence. Reporters had tried to interview her but Alan had hired bodyguards to drive them away, and now months later, matters had slowly settled down, somewhat.

She uncapped the pen.

_Dear Detective Burton,_ Edith wrote. _Thank you for your work on my behalf regarding the events at Allerdale Hall. I appreciate all that you have done to resolve this difficult tragedy and provide justice for the other victims._

_However, when I finally read the report that has lain on my desk these many months, I noted that at the time of writing, you had not found the body of my late husband, Sir Thomas Sharpe. Has this changed? Have you found his remains at all? While I bear no love for his sister’s memory and care nothing for the details of her burial, I feel an unfulfilled obligation to that of Sir Thomas. Please reply at your earliest convenience so that I may plan accordingly._

_With deep gratitude,_

_Edith Cushing Sharpe_

It felt odd to write her name, and Edith stared at her signature for a moment before capping the pen and setting it down. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she flexed them before reaching for an envelope, addressing it, and folding the note within it.

The maid popped in moments after Edith had rung for her, and took the letter, exchanging it for the morning paper. Edith took it and moved to the chaise lounge, feeling slightly exhausted as her emotions took their toll. She shook open the paper and scanned it, prepared to lose herself in the news of the day.

*** *** ***

Three days later, Detective Constable Edmund Burton sat uncomfortably on the settee across from Edith Cushing Sharpe, studying her pale features with care. She looked stronger than she had in the hospital but not by much, and the pink line across her right cheekbone stood out against her milky complexion. He noted too, that although she seemed composed, her hands flexed periodically as she moved the tea cups around on the tray.

“I myself don’t drink tea . . . anymore,” she murmured, “but I’m sure you do. Milk? Lemon?”

“Neither, ma’am, although I do take sugar,” Edmund rumbled. He watched her fix his cup, noting that her fingers were free of rings. Not surprising, that. Once she handed him his cup, he took a sip, letting it fortify him for what was to come. “Thank you.”

She waited, her brown eyes fixed on him, and he gave a little sigh before speaking again. “In regards to the matter on which you wrote me, the answer is no. We did not find Sir Thomas’ body anywhere on the grounds of Allerdale Hall. I had my men search the house, the mines and the surrounding fields after the blizzard but they turned up nothing.”

Years of watching people gave him an insight to their reactions, and Edmund saw that this news didn’t surprise her as much as it should have. She frowned. “He should have been in the house.”

“Yet he wasn’t,” Edmund quietly pointed out. “My men looked everywhere for him and didn’t find a trace. And that bothers me, ma’am. His body should be there. Unless . . .” he left his sentence unfinished, to see what she would do.

“He died,” Edith replied firmly. “I . . . I _know_ he did.”

“Begging your pardon ma’am, but how?” Edmund asked quietly. “Did you see his body?”

“No,” she replied, “but I am . . . convinced he died.”

Edmund set his cup down. “Respectfully, I am not completely sure he did.” Forestalling her, he held up a hand. “The most likely truth is that he may have crawled off somewhere, or sank into the clay, may have been lost in the snow and died elsewhere, but without a body it nags at me. I have been told to close the case so that legal proceedings can get on, and I will, but under protest.”

“I see,” Edith replied. They sat in silence for a moment, and Edmund Burton watched her face, noting the shades of wistfulness and hope cross her features. It didn’t surprise him; he’d seen a lot in his time on the force, tragedy and horror, despair and longing. 

“I don’t want you to get your hopes shattered, ma’am. He’s very likely dead although we can’t prove it. All I’m telling you is that you won’t have a body to bury. Raise a stone to his memory if you wish, but wherever Sir Thomas lies, it won’t be under it. Sorry to be blunt, but that’s the way of things.”

“No, you’re probably right,” Edith told him faintly. “I suppose it would be best to . . . move on.”

“Yes ma’am,” he agreed. “It would. And my condolences of course.”

He allowed her to see him out, feeling relieved to have spoken his piece, and regretful at inflicting further hurt, but the sooner this business was finished, the better. At the door, he turned to look at Edith, but she was gazing off towards the horizon and Edmund knew where her glance had gone.

“The lawyers tell me that there is a buyer waiting once the case is closed,” she murmured. “That they intend to bring the house down with dynamite.”

“Do they now?” Edmund turned to gaze towards the distant Hall. “That will be a sight.”

“Yes,” Edith agreed. “One I think I will not stay to see. Although I may visit it one last time before it happens.”

The little hairs on the back of Edmund Burton’s neck stood up in a chilly rush. “Begging pardon Ma’am but do you think that’s wise?”

She turned to look at him, a strange little smile on her pale face. “No. But then again, I’ve already made so many unwise decisions, that one more won’t do much harm, will it?”


	2. Chapter 2

Alan wasn’t told. Edith saw him off at the train station, teasing him affectionately, and reassuring him she would be fine. He looked doubtful, so she made it a point to smile often.

“I’m considering a trip to the Continent myself,” Edith reminded him. “Visit Paris, and Rome, perhaps. Do the Grand Tour.”  
“It will do you good to get some sun,” he agreed. “Put more bloom into those cheeks of yours. Promise me you’ll write frequently, yes?”

“Yes—” The last boarding call cut into her reply, along with the shriek of the whistle. Alan pulled her in close for a final hug, and Edith savored it a moment, glad to be alive. She watched him reluctantly climb into the train and gazed after it as it pulled away from the Carlisle station, heading south towards Ravenstonedale and eventually Leeds and London. When the last of the smoke trail was gone, Edith had the driver of the carriage take her back into Carlisle, stopping eventually at the police station. Within a few minutes, the bulky figure of Detective Constable Burton came down the stone steps. He looked up at her, shading his eyes from the sunshine.

“You’re determined to do this then?”

“Yes,” Edith replied, unhooking the door to let him board. “With _you_ along, as per our agreement.”

“Very well, ma’am.”

He climbed in, making the carriage sway a bit, and settled into the seat across from her, looking far too serious in the daylight. Edith settled back into her own seat, rubbing her eyes under her smoked glasses.

The first hour of the trip passed in silence as the carriage bounced along the rutted road. Eventually the driver reached the crossroad and took the northern fork, passing the sign pointing to Archon Town. The road began to climb. Edith fought down a rising sense of panic by lacing her gloved hands together tightly, and steeled herself for the first appearance of Allerdale Hall’s spires over the hill.

They rose, pointed and dark as ever, but as more of the house came into view she saw that the Hall was now surrounded by a rough wooden barricade, giving a slightly undignified look to the place. What had been majestic and menacing before now looked a bit like an elderly lady with her petticoats showing. Edith choked back a slightly hysterical giggle at the image, trying to calm herself. Burton eyed her for a moment.

The carriage stopped at the gates, and Burton climbed down to unlock and pull them open. They creaked, spooking the horses a little. When he climbed back in, Burton was slightly winded as he asked her, “Doing all right then?”

“Yes,” Edith assured him. She stared ahead, looking at the house, seeing how different it appeared in spring sunshine. The long lawns were lush, dotted with wildflowers. She spotted a few hares racing along through the grass. “It’s so green.”

“Grazing land around here, good for sheep,” Burton told her. “And the clay of course, although it’s not easily gotten.”

“Yes, I know,” she murmured, feeling a pang. Thomas had worked so hard to pull that terrible scarlet slurry out of the ground, all to no avail. Would his engine still be there, she wondered, rusting away?

They reached the wooden barricade, and once again Burton climbed down to open it. He spoke briefly to the driver, and then helped Edith down. “I told young Jamie there to unhitch the mare and let her graze a bit. He’ll keep an eye on the road for us as well, though I doubt anyone will be coming this way.”

“Thank you,” Edith murmured, looking around the grounds. Thomas’ invention lay in pieces across the grass like a great rusting brontosaurus, and she turned away, not wanting to remember what had happened in front of it, not wanting to see if the shovel was still there . . .

“I’m armed,” Burton continued, opening his coat to reveal the revolver tucked into the inner pocket. “Not expecting trouble, but if it comes we’ll be ready.”

Not trusting her voice, Edith nodded. 

They went up the steps together. She felt her tension rise, her senses go on alert as Burton unlocked the front door. Memories tried to crowd into her head, tried to squeeze the breath from her but Edith locked her jaw and stepped forward, over the threshold.  
 _Oh Thomas,_ she thought, remembering when he had carried her over this spot. Tears prickled and she blinked them back, determined not to cry. If this was to be her farewell to Allerdale Hall, then she wouldn’t cry for her lost love here. 

Straightening up, Edith moved into the foyer.

The unexpected beauty of sunlight streaming down from the hole in the roof made into a cathedral. Between the floorboards, small weeds and flowers flourished. In the sunbeams, butterflies danced, flitting around in waltzes through the air. Burton whistled admiringly, and stopped when he caught Edith’s eyes.

“It’s all right,” she murmured, “It is. . . beautiful.”

And it was. Edith felt some of her tension loosen as she watched the butterflies swoop where she once had fallen. She stepped around the edge of the light, mounting the stairs slowly. Burton joined her, not speaking, but offering her his support as they climbed the steps.

She wasn’t sure exactly how she felt. Disjointed, certainly. Not actually present either. There were no ghosts here now, only cobwebs and dust and the scent of mildew drifting around. Edith moved along the hallways, letting her gaze sweep over each of the rooms in a last look. She avoided the turn of the hall that lead to Lucille’s chamber, and instead reached for the metal gate of the elevator.

“Not sure that’s safe, ma’am. The engine that runs it won’t be working anyway,” Burton reminded her ruefully. 

She nodded, and moved to the stairs again, determined to see it all. They climbed once again, and this time Edith made her way to the nursery.

To Thomas’ workshop.

She stopped in the doorway, taking a breath, waiting. For what, Edith couldn’t quite say. Some absurd hope of seeing him here, hunched over, working on something. Perhaps seeing Thomas as she last had, a sorrowful grey figure bleeding smoke.

But it was as empty as the other rooms if not a little cooler and darker. Edith stepped in and looked around, fighting the sob that threatened to rise in her throat. This room out of all of them was more purely Thomas than any other. His blueprints, his tools, his half-finished projects gave a melancholy feel to the place.

She moved to the toy he’d showed her so long ago; the trickster with the cups. It was dusty now, with a large spider web stretching from the figure’s nose to his upraised hand. Edith bit her lips hard and turned away. This time a tear _did_ escape, sliding down her cheek to linger on the scar there.

After a few blinks though, Edith froze. Something wasn’t quite right. She looked around again, and it took a long moment to spot what had caught her inner attention. There, on the corner of the workbench—

A new toy.

New, she realized, because it had no dust on it. The paint gleamed.

Edith felt the frisson race down her spine and she took a step forward. Two more and it was within arm’s reach now. Bending, she studied it closely.

A small dog cunningly carved of wood and painted black and white stood mounted on a long track. Next to him in a cup was a small metal ball painted bright red. The cup had handle, and before she could stop herself, Edith tipped it, letting the metal ball roll nosily down the track. The dog moved after it with the jerky motion of gears, reaching the ball at the end. It tipped itself to touch the ball with its nose, and a hidden magnet made the ball stick. The dog spun and raced back up the track, stopping with a mechanical jerk at the end, the ball still on its nose.

She stared at the toy, caught between the rushing emotions of fear and something else, something nameless but wild and slightly dangerous now. Edith reached a shaky hand out to collect the ball, pulling it off of the magnet at the end of the dog’s nose.

It felt heavy in her hand; solid and real. She squeezed it and brought it up to her face.

Red of course. Red as the clay several stories below. Red as heart’s blood. Edith stared at it until a part of her brain took in that there were scratches on the ball.

They formed letters. Crude ones, but legible. She carried the ball over to the window where the light was better and stared again at the markings.

I LOVE EDITH

“Clever toy,” Burton murmured, startling her badly. Edith dropped the ball with a little cry, spinning to find it, scrambling on hands and knees to fish for it. She scrabbled frantically, finally scooping it up again, clutching it tightly in her hands.

“I, yes, we’re taking it. Taking this. Right now,” she babbled, dimly aware she sounded like a lunatic. “Please, help me.”

“All right ma’am, all right,” Burton soothed her uncertainly. “Everything here’s yours anyway.”

“Yes,” she replied, still clutching the metal ball in her palm. Burton picked up the toy and tucked it under one arm before turning to walk with Edith back to the staircase. It took massive effort to regain her poise, but she managed, keeping her head up and her chin high.

Elation sent quicksilver sparks through her chest, followed by needles of panic. She refused to think and instead let her feet carry her back down to the first floor.

“Anywhere else, ma’am?” Burton asked. “Do you want any of the furnishings?”

Edith forced herself to tuck the ball away in a pocket and turned, surveying the room once more. “No. No, I think it should all stay here.”

“Even the piano over there? It’s a lovely piece; probably bring in a few hundred pounds on the market.”

“No,” Edith murmured, letting her gaze rest on it. She tried not to remember Lucille sitting there on the bench, spine straight. “I certainly will not inflict _that_ piece on anyone else. May we go now, Inspector Constable? I’m feeling a little . . . overwhelmed at the moment.”

To his credit as a gentleman Burton took the hint and led the way. Edith slowly followed him out, her hand in her pocket.


	3. Chapter 3

She studied every inch of the toy.

Wood, metal, paint . . . nothing unusual in the components. Edith was no particular connoisseur of mechanical devices, but this piece did hold a particular cleverness to it. And of course, the very fact that it was a dog—THE dog-- Edith reminded herself, added another layer of intrigue.

The dog. She hadn’t seen it or learned what had happened to it. In honesty, the creature’s fate hadn’t crossed her mind in all these months, and she felt a rush of guilt for that. The poor little thing had clearly belonged to Enola and had been her only true friend the entire time she had been at Allerdale Hall. Edith didn’t recall reading about it in the police report either, but then again, with so much horror at the scene, the body of one small dog could have been easily overlooked.

Overshadowed.

Edith tipped the cup again, making the ball roll on the track. Once more the dog made its jerky trip down the length, tipping itself and magnetically lifting the ball, then spinning and marching back up the track.

Silly, really. A charming little bit of amusement. A parlor trick when all was said and done.

_So why?_ She asked herself. _Why this?_

She didn’t ask _who._ From the moment she’d set the toy down on her desk, Edith had accepted the most logical answer to that.

Thomas was alive. Only he could have made this. Only _he_ would have chosen this little moment out of their time together and made it a whimsical toy.

“Thomas,” she whispered brokenly.

Edith felt the tears again, and this time she let them flow. Crying was difficult for her and always had been, but too much had happened recently, stirring the complicated emotions deep within her. She curled herself on the settee and pulled out her handkerchief, wiping her face periodically as quiet sobs escaped her.

It hurt to cry. Hurt her heart of course, but it also woke fresh aches through her slight frame as well. Alan had warned her that it would take at least a year or more to heal, and that like him, she too might carry a certain degree of pain for life. “The body is slow in letting go of trauma,” he warned. “Promise me you won’t exert yourself unduly.”

When the worst of it was over, Edith lay there, making herself relax. Her eyes would be red, she knew, and it was possible she might get the hiccups—another unhappy legacy of crying—but at least her thoughts were clearer now.

“You’re out there, and I’m going to _find_ you,” she murmured to the room. “You left this for me on purpose.”

Just saying it aloud helped. Edith sat up and picked up the magnifying glass once more.

The maid came in moments later, a bundle in her hands. She politely cleared her throat, and when Edith glanced over, spoke. “Morning, mum. These arrived for you and I thought you’d want them straight away.”

“Yes, thank you, Jane. Just set them there.” Edith replied. The bundle was very likely the latest dispatch from the estate lawyers. She’d hoped it was the duplicate of her manuscript, which was on its way from New York, but from the slightness of the envelope that wasn’t likely.

“It’s pretty, mum.”

Edith looked up and realized Jane was staring at the toy. “Oh. Yes, it is.”

“Does it work?”

In reply, Edith took the ball off the dog’s nose, set it in the cup, and ran the mechanism again. Jane’s delighted smile made her smile in return.

“Oh lovely! A bit like the one in Barlow’s window.”

Confused, Edith blinked. “Barlow’s window?”

“A shop, mum. In town.” 

At that moment the front doorbell rang and Jane bobbed a curtsy before disappearing to answer it. Edith wandered over to the letters, picking them up absently, checking the return addresses. Two household bills, a note from the chemist about the prescriptions Alan had left for her, and yes, a thick packet from Featherstone and Taft, the solicitors in charge of the Sharpe estate.

With any stroke of luck this would be the final bit of legality allowing her to sell Allerdale Hall to whoever it was willing to buy the accursed place. Edith had begun to think that dynamite would be a fine solution in fact. She had no ties to the land or the house, and seeing it go down in a grand explosion wouldn’t faze her in the least. 

A sudden memory of Thomas’ face brought forth a pang of guilt in her. Lucille aside, Thomas had genuinely loved parts of Allerdale Hall, Edith knew. He’d been proud to show it to her, proud to call it home.

Even if it had a rotted heart.

Sighing, Edith broke the wax seal and untwisted the strings of the bulky envelope. She carried it to her desk and reached for her glasses, slipping them on and smoothing out the thick papers.

Yes, this was it; the final bit of paperwork. She’d inherited Allerdale along with the Sharpe family debts, and while many of the merchants had settled for smaller sums than they were due, it had still taken a good bit of money to clear everything. The solicitors were suggesting she auction off the contents of the house, particularly the paintings and libraries as a way of minor reimbursement.

Edith thought of the many volumes, the elegant bookcases housing them. She had no qualms in selling those. Too, some of the better furnishings could go as well. Everything, she decided, _but_ the piano. Some small and furious part of her refused to allow that cherished item of Lucille’s to leave Allerdale Hall, some part of Edith relished with glee the idea of it exploding into fragments in the forthcoming detonation.

It was wickedly delicious to have some small measure of revenge, Edith thought to herself.

She signed her name at the bottom of the document and blew on the wet ink as Jane reappeared in the study doorway.

“For you, mum,” she said, holding out the note. 

_Dear Edith,_ read the note. _Have made it all the way to London. Missing you terribly and hope you are well. Are you taking your powders? I am due to board the Honoria within the hour, and truth be told, not entirely happy about it. It’s a fine thing when a doctor suffers from seasickness, but I’ve set aside plenty of powdered ginger to see me through the trip._

_This means I will be incommunicado for the next week or two of course. Please, please take care of yourself. The men I hired to protect you are still available should you need them; simply speak with Detective Constable Burton and he will take care of matters._

_With great affection, always,_

_Alan_

Edith winced a bit, staring down at the page. She knew she should be flattered and appreciative of his concern, but Alan’s note made her feel like a child once more. It annoyed her to continually be treated this way by him, and she crumpled the paper in her hand.

“Are you all right, mum?” Jane asked softly.

“Yes, just a little weary,” she replied, feeling the mental truth of her words. As the maid turned to leave, something else came to mind, and Edith added, “You mentioned a shop?”

“Oh. Yes, mum. They have a toy in the window there a bit like this one,” Jane offered shyly. “My little brother spent all morning watching it last time I took him to town.”

Edith forced herself to stay calm. “Really?”

“Indeed,” Jane nodded, going a little red under Edith’s scrutiny. “Er, I’d best be back to my duties, mum, unless there was something else?”

Edith handed her the crumpled note. “For the fire, then. Thank you, Jane.”

\--oo00oo—

Archon Town lay to the southwest of Carlisle, and the trip was nearly as long as to Allerdale Hall. The day wasn’t as fair as the first, though and the rain spattered the glass of the coach as it rumbled along the road. Inside, Edith found herself sitting opposite an elderly gentleman and his young grandson, the three of them sharing a slightly awkward silence as they made the trip. The boy, who looked to be around nine or so, kept peering out of the window and leaning nose smudges on the glass. His grandfather dozed a bit, leaning back against the cushions.

Gradually the carriage slowed, passing by a few fields and a graveyard under the watchful rise of a grey stone church. Other buildings lined the road now, growing thicker on either side, and even the rain didn’t stop the easy flow of people and other horses at the first cross street.

“Archon Town,” called the driver, bringing the carriage to a halt. The grandfather nodded to her, holding the door open, and Edith took the driver’s hand, letting him help her down to the kerb. He tipped his hat to her, she pressed a few guineas into his hand and within moments Edith found herself walking down the street with her umbrella up and her eyes open.

It had been a while since she’d walked in a crowded place, and it took time to relax. People jostled around her, talking loudly and joking; moving baskets of goods, sacks of produce, crates and carts appeared here and there. Edith tried to remember the streets of Buffalo and move accordingly. It helped. She found her stride and scanned the storefronts, looking for . . . something.

Pubs. A bookshop. A chemist’s shop. A sign for an undertaker. Nothing looked remotely like a toy shop. She paused, feeling a twinge in her ankle, trying to ignore it. What she needed were directions, and possibly something to eat. Both could probably be found, Edith decided, at the little bakery at the corner.

Emmaline’s exuded the heavenly scent of fresh bread, and Edith breathed it in, feeling a little twinge in her stomach. She made her way to the counter, trying not to be distracted by the stacks of loaves and buns displayed there.

“Yes Miss, how can I help you?” a motherly woman with flour on her chin and a gap-toothed smile greeted her.

“I’m looking for a shop here in town,” Edith began, her gaze shifting to a particularly appealing baguette to her left. “It’s a toy shop I think, called Barlows?”

The woman’s expression shifted from pleased to perplexed. “Er, Barlow’s, miss? That’s not a toy shop. It’s a bits and bobs ironmongers place, one street over in Coal Lane. Are you _sure_ you want to go there?”

Edith nodded. “Yes. I’m sure. One street over, you said?”

“Yes. It’s set back a bit, opposite the livery. Just—do be careful, like. It’s a bit rough there at times,” the woman warned. 

Ten minutes later Edith turned the corner to Coal Street with a loaf under her arm and a mouthful of warm bread. She felt a good deal better, and by now the rain had tapered off, although the sun had yet to come out. She caught sight of the store, reading its battered sign over the front window. _Barlow’s est. 1802. Jos Rhodes, propr._ The paint had begun to peel, and what had once been a green sign looked sickly grey now.

Edith moved to the store, shifting her gaze to the window, which was apparently cluttered with junk: saws and hammers, shears and odd devices whose purpose she couldn’t even begin to name. The goods lay strewn on the window display shelf haphazardly, paper price tags tied to them with dirty string.

Then her gaze took in the piece in the center of the display. It was a large platter-shaped device with tracks on it creating a series of overlapping triangles rather like a star of David, and standing at one point of a triangle where a small metal couple, ready to waltz.

Edith drew closer, holding her breath. She reached the window and bent down, feeling her hands and face grow cold. The female’s dress had been painted white, her hair gold. The male wore black paint for his suit and hair.

And in their joined right hands they held a tiny wax candle.


	4. Chapter 4

Edith felt her knees shake; she reached out for the wall, bracing against it to steady herself and the loaf fell to the wet pavement. That annoyance helped her regain some equilibrium, and with a sigh she picked it up gingerly. Not too much damage, although she doubted she’d be eating any more of it. Shifting, Edith closed her umbrella and stepped inside the shop.

The scents of machine oil and leather tickled her nose; familiar smells that made her smile briefly. The light was dimmer, and Edith turned to look back at the dancers, a fresh shudder running through her frame.

“Yes Miss, anything I can help you with?” came a deep voice from over her shoulder. Edith turned, nearly running into the sweaty-faced man in the leather apron. He tried to smile, but one of his front teeth was missing and belatedly she thought he looked like a jack-o-lantern.

“The machine there. With the dancers. Does it work?” she managed.

“Oh that,” the man replied. “Yes. Cunning little thing. Winds with a key just there on the edge. Let me show you.” He brushed past her and leaned down into the window, cranking the little key several times. As he straightened up again, Edith saw the dancers begin their waltz, sliding smoothly, twirling at each far point of the triangle.

Her feet shifted under her, moved by memory beyond her control. That long-ago dance . . . even now Edith remembered Thomas’ hand along her back, his soulful gaze locked on hers. In the ear of her thoughts she heard his remark once again about preferring to close his eyes to avoid uncomfortable situations . . . 

_Lucille,_ she realized belatedly. _He’d meant Lucille._

Another memory flashed in her thoughts, against her will.

_Lucille and Thomas at the edge of her bed. Thomas with--  
His eyes--  
Closed._

Edith sucked in a huge breath, startling herself and the shopkeeper. “How much?” she demanded, a little too loudly.

“Er, twenty guineas, Miss. On account it’s one of a kind, you see. And you can light the candle too.”

“I’ll take it,” Edith told him, stepping back and fumbling for her purse. The comical dance of shifting bread, umbrella and coins carried her over to the till where the shopkeeper took the money.

“Miss, it’s far too big for a wee thing like you to carry yourself. Tell me where you want it taken and I’ll have Billy cart it there,” he told her. “Address?”

Edith told him, writing it out on a scrap of paper in her clearest hand. She longed to study the toy closely, but the light of the shop and curiosity of the shopkeeper held her back. Nevertheless, she kept a polite expression on her face.

“Tell me, where did you get this . . . toy?”

The shopkeeper looked up, his expression slightly wary. “Pedlar, Miss. Probably stolen goods, though I don’t know.”

“A peddler?”

The shopkeeper shrugged defensively. “Not every sale’s in coin, Miss, especially this far from Carlisle. I take trade, especially if the goods are smart.”

“I see,” Edith murmured. She wanted more information, _much_ more, but it was apparent that her line of questioning was making the man nervous. So she smiled and picked up the loaf of bread. “Well thank you. If you should get any other toys of this sort, please keep me in mind. I’m . . . starting a collection of them and I pay top . . . pound.”

“Very good Miss,” he replied, and assured her the dancers would be delivered within the day.  
Edith stepped out of the shop into a dark afternoon. The rain started up again but she hardly noticed it, her thoughts caught up in the new information. 

A peddler?

Thomas?

The idea was absurd; _he was a baronet,_ Edith reminded herself. Aristocracy. Landed gentry for all the good the land had done him. The people around here knew the Sharpes.

In fact, knew them a little _too_ well now, came the bitter after-thought. It was only the remoteness of Allerdale Hall in winter that had eventually forced the reporters and broadsheet writers to leave. Even now a few lingered, hoping to interview her, but she was wise to their attempts.

Still, Edith quickened her steps, hoping to return to the carriage hire station before another deluge hit. She abandoned the bread and strode on, tipping her umbrella against fresh gusts of rain. Between the weather and the waning light, though, Edith found herself outside of anything recognizable after a while. She looked around in vain, finally settling on the distant spire of the church.

At least there she might find a bit of shelter, she reasoned, quickening her pace and ignoring the throb of her ankle.

The church was open. Edith supposed they were setting up for vespers in a few hours, and walked in quietly, soothed a bit by the candlelight. Neither she nor Father had been much involved with the church, but she knew the services and admired the architecture. This particular church was small but solid, and warmer than the chill outside. 

Nobody was around. Edith pulled off her gloves and stepped down the nave, looking about. A sigh escaped her and she settled into a pew, closing her eyes.

Peaceful. Warm.

Safe.

She drifted off.

Edith wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but eventually she opened her eyes again, feeling refreshed. She lifted her head and caught sight of a priest slowly walking her way, his gaze kind.

“Better, miss?” he inquired in a soft Scottish burr. His hair was steely grey, and his nose looked as if it had been broken once or twice.

“Yes,” Edith admitted, “although a little embarrassed.”

He came to her pew and cocked his head, giving her a quiet smile. “Comfort and succor come in many forms here. A little nap never offends the Lord, I assure you.”

Edith smiled back at that, and rose, preparing to leave. The priest shifted to give her room, and added, “May I help you?”

She paused, and came to a quick decision. “Father, I’m looking for someone I think is here in Archon Town. A peddler. A maker of toys.”

The priest kept his gaze on her, and for a moment Edith thought his expression softened. “I see. And if I should know of such a man—not that I do—who shall I say is asking for him?”

Edith kept her eyes locked on his. “His wife.”

The priest bowed his head as if making a silent promise, and when he lifted it again, he spoke. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, I seem to be a bit lost. Can you direct me back to the carriage hire?”

Twenty minutes later, Edith boarded the last rig out of Archon Town. By strange fortune, her companions were once again the grandfather and the boy, who nodded familiarly to her as they climbed in after her. The three of them settled in as the sun began to set through the clouds, its last beams putting a sparkle onto the wet road.

Edith found herself lost in thought, caught between hope and frustration. It seemed a familiar place, and she tried not to fret. She looked at the boy, who smiled at her.

He held up a toy.

Little paper butterflies twirled on twisted filaments in a glass ball. Little yellow and black butterflies to be precise, each spotted with paste diamonds.

Edith felt faint. Forcing herself to smile, she leaned forward and spoke softly. “That’s pretty.”

The boy nodded. “Yes.”

“Where did you get it?”

“From Mr. Cavendish,” the boy replied, his attention on the butterflies, “at the market.”

Edith felt the blood leave her face. “C-Cavendish?”

“Yes, Miss.”

Edith closed her eyes, working hard to calm herself. _Of all names . . . well he did say he liked the character. Thomas, I swear when I find you, I cannot be sure whether I will kiss you or throttle you first._

\--oo00oo—

The dancer toy arrived the next morning, delivered along with the milk and the newspaper. Edith hadn’t slept well, and was already up by the time Jane had the toy brought in to the desktop.   
Edith shook her head at Jane’s suggestion of breakfast. “Some toast perhaps.”

“Very good mum.” If Jane recognized the toy she didn’t let on, leaving Edith in the study.

This time Edith was ready. After a moment’s hesitation, she brought a match to the little candle, and then wound the key. The dancers moved along their course, twirling and spinning at the point of each triangle, the candle guttering. True to form it didn’t go out, and when the toy finally wound down long moments later, Edith’s face was wet.

“Damn you,” she hissed. “ _Damn_ you, Thomas Sharpe!”

Steeling herself, she bent to blow out the candle, and took her time examining the toy thoroughly, looking at it from every angle, even lifting it to study the underside.

Nothing seemed particularly unusual until she spotted the first letter along the edge of the dancing floor. A faint ‘T’ was just to the left of the key. Edith ran a finger on it, and found the next letter, which was an ‘E.’

Excited, she grabbed a piece of paper and wrote those letters, adding the others as she made her way around the circumference of the toy. When Edith was through and had reached the key, she found a heart after the last letter. Standing back, she looked at what she’d copied.

TEHDOIMTAHS

She frowned, irritated. “I don’t—”

But suddenly Edith saw it. She copied the odd numbered letters down, and followed with the even numbered letters, her handwriting getting shakier and shakier as she untwined their names.

She sat down suddenly, barely making it to the settee before her knees gave out, making an undignified bounce on the horsehair. Edith didn’t care though, her thoughts racing.

“Enough!” she muttered. “Enough! You’re out there, and you’re all but begging for me to find you! Where would you go . . . Archon Town? You make toys, so you need materials . . . scrap. You’re not going by your true name, and you’re using the one I created. And the priest, oh he _knows_ you, I can feel it.”

She shot to her feet and stalked to the desk, grabbing a piece of her letterhead and scribbling a note. A furious yank on the bell-pull brought Jane, who stared wide-eyed at her mistress. Edith’s mouth was set, and her brown eyes held a determination that her father would have recognized.

“Please have someone take this to Detective Constable Burton, Jane. Immediately.”


	5. Chapter 5

“What would happen to my husband _if_ he were alive?” Edith asked.

Edmund Burton shifted a little. He was more comfortable asking questions than answering them, but the look on Mrs. Sharpe’s face brought his thoughtful response. “Precious little, I suppose. Oh there might be a charge of assault against Doctor McMichael, but as for the rest: bigamy, fraud, conspiracy-- they’d be dismissed. The victims are dead so there’s no one to press charges, and the police evidence shows that they died by his sister’s hand. At most, abandonment I suppose, and cruelty if you’re the one pressing charges against him.”

“He was never cruel to me,” Edith replied. “Not with intent.”

“So you say, ma’am,” Burton nodded, not entirely convinced. “With the debts paid and the house sold, he’d be penniless of course.”

“But he’d be free,” Edith pressed. “Right?”

Reluctantly Burton nodded. “For all the good it would do him, yes.”

He watched her square her shoulders before she looked at him, and Burton was reminded of a little goldfinch when he noted her soft brown eyes.

“I believe he _is_ alive, and before you dismiss the notion, I have some evidence to show you,” Edith began. “Please hear me out.”

Burton nodded slowly. “All right, Mrs. Sharpe. Tell me then; what makes you think he is?”

Twenty minutes later, Burton found himself considering matters in a different light. A single toy could be coincidence, but three were a pattern to be sure—enough to merit looking into, anyway. The sentimental touches of adding her name not once but twice into the toys added to the possibility that Thomas Sharpe was alive. 

A possibility, not a certainty, Burton reminded himself, and said so aloud.

“I will make inquiries in Archon Town,” he told Edith quietly. “As much to settle my own accounts on this matter as any other. Again, Madam, please don’t set your heart by this, though, I beg you. He may be a very different man than he was when you knew him.” 

She nodded, and it pained him to see that she understood his meaning clearly. “I’m prepared for that, sir.”

Burton wasn’t sure she was, but then again this quiet waif had lived through a murderess’s rampage, so there surely was steel to that little backbone of hers. He sighed. “What if . . .” 

“If?”

“If he doesn’t _want_ to be found,” Burton finished heavily. “Pardon my bluntness ma’am, but it’s second-nature to the job. Sir Thomas may not want to return to his former life. It happens sometimes after tragedies like this. Men lose heart; they drown themselves in drink or descend into madness.”

He didn’t think the woman could get any paler, but she did. 

“Then I will make sure that he’s taken care of,” Edith replied in a voice as thin as shadow. “When I first wrote to you, I mentioned my unfulfilled obligation, and I feel it more strongly now than ever. So while I appreciate your candor, it will not stop me in doing what I must.”

Burton rose up, giving a little bow. “Then I will assist you however I can, ma’am, and pray that the outcome is worth it for both of us.”

*** *** *** 

Growing up as Carter Cushing’s child had given Edith a practical approach to strategy. She knew how to organize, how to plan for contingencies and how to move from one decision to another. Her father had granted her the confidence to choose her own path, and now that path was taking her back to the church outside of Archon Town.

St. Kentigern’s, she noted. Not a saint she was familiar with. Edith checked the doors and found them locked, to her consternation. She circled around the great grey walls, wondering if there was a vicarage nearby, only to find herself at the gate to the graveyard.  
That, she noted, was open. A soft breeze made ripples through the long grass around the stones, and Edith stepped in on the gravel path, feeling calm, knowing she had nothing to fear.

 _I’ve spent far too much time fearing ghosts instead of making my peace with them,_ she thought, making her way along the central path. Many of the headstones wore lichen along their northern edges, and others were stained with clay at their bases, giving them a slightly eerie appearance despite the sunshine. She had to keep brushing loose strands of hair from her face, but other than that, Edith liked the slightly desolate feel of the place. This part of England appealed to her; it had from the moment Thomas had brought her here.

A noise caught her attention, and she spotted a figure bent over near a tombstone a little ways distant. She recognized his cassock; the priest, then, and Edith realized he was pulling weeds.

He straightened up, his hair too, blowing in the wind, and met her gaze. Brushing his hands, he came over to her, smiling. “A fine day to you, Miss.”

“It’s missus, actually,” Edith corrected him quietly. “Mrs. Sharpe. I would like to talk to you, please.”

“Father Martin. And I suspected you would return. Come, there’s a place by the hedgerow where we can sit out of the wind.”  
Edith followed him down a curving path that lead to a sheltered spot with a stone bench. The sun had warmed it, and from it she could see both the graveyard and the road. Father Martin waited until she was settled in before sitting himself, still brushing dirt from his hands.

“Father, I—” Edith began, but he gave a little shake of his head.

“Missus Sharpe, before you ask me any questions, I have a story to tell you. I call it a story because parts of it seem too fantastic to be true, and because it hasn’t ended yet. It involves a poor soul who calls himself Cavendish.”

Edith froze, eyes widening. Father Martin inclined his head to her reaction. “Shall I continue?”

Not trusting her voice, Edith nodded.

“Very well. First you must know that I’ve served the Lord here for nearly forty years. I came south and found my calling early, making Archon Town my home. I know its streets and shops well; the people here are my flock in many ways. From them I know a good many truths, not all of them pleasant, and not all of them simply from Archon Town. There have been stories about yon great house on the hill, and I suspect _you_ know the stories I speak of.”

His voice had gone harsh, and Edith nodded again.

Father Martin continued. “Now let us move forward. Nearly five months ago a great blizzard swept over the countryside, covering everything in snow. I piled the coal onto the fire and sat before it to keep soul and body together when I heard a howl in the wind.  
“Now where I’d been born had wolves aplenty, and I know the sound of them well. But this was a higher cry, much more frantically forlorn and it came sweeping against my windows. I heard it again, closer, and by the time I decided to peek outside, a crash brought me to my feet. I grabbed a blanket, threw open the door and was nearly trampled for my troubles. A horse, wild-eyed and foamy with exhaustion stamped in the yard, dragging behind it, a sleigh.”

“A sleigh?”

“Yes,” Father Martin replied. “A hire by the look of it, but not from around here. I know what we have and what the depot has—this was from further off. And horses do bolt, you see; they run hard when they’re scared, and this poor animal was clearly at the end of its wits. So I screwed up my courage, tossed the blanket over the creature’s head and when it was calm, I peered into the sleigh, expecting it to be empty.”

“But it wasn’t,” Edith supplied, thinking of Alan, and his unexpected arrival in the middle of that night. Had there been a sleigh on the lawns? She couldn’t remember. Too many of her memories were lost to other more fearful details.

“No. There was a dog,” Father Martin murmured. “Snuggled down in the ragged white shirtfront of a man.”

Edith twitched, but the priest spoke before she could ask. “A wee thing, black and white, bleeding. The man was too, slumped across the seat, and I took him for dead given the fearful nature of his wounds. Ghastly they were in the dim light, and I crossed myself seeing them. But even the dead deserved my attention, so I went to take the dog up. And that’s when I saw that he—the man—was still breathing. Barely, but enough to make the faintest puffs from his pale mouth.

“The Lord lent me His strength that night, truly,” Father Martin sighed. “I managed to carry the man inside, laying him close to the fire. Alas, the horse couldn’t be saved, though—the creature had run its heart out and died just outside my doors. So I turned my attention back to the man and his dog as quickly as I could.”

Edith was chewing her lips, desperate to ask questions but aware that if she interrupted now, she might never get the full story. She made a small noise, and Father Martin drew in a deep breath, continuing.

“I cleaned his wounds and bandaged them, kept him as warm as I could. The dog too; the little thing lay close to his master from that night and many a night after that. It took nearly four days for the man’s eye to open and another day for him to regain his senses.” 

The priest’s voice slowed. “Of his confessions I cannot speak, Mrs. Sharpe, but I heard them. I heard _all_ of them.”

For a moment Father Martin said nothing more, and the aching silence swirled around them both. Edith felt slightly dizzy, glad of the warmth of the sun. Everything seemed so distant, and yet . . .

“He lived, but he did not . . . thrive. Took food but grew no stronger, sat and said nothing. The only care he took was for the dog, tending to it until the wound between its ribs healed. I asked him what he was waiting for. ‘To die,’ he told me once.”

Edith flinched again, pressing a hand to her mouth. 

“I told him he’d been spared for a reason but he didn’t believe me. It went that way for nearly fifty days, and then on the first day of Lent, I told my silent charge that he was _forbidden_ to die until . . .”  
“Until?”

“Until he’d made himself right with those he had betrayed,” Father Martin sighed. “Done penance for three souls. ‘How?’ he’d demanded of me. ‘I have nothing _left_ to give,’ but I told him to humble his damned self and look hard within.”

For a moment Father Martin sounded very much like her father, and Edith bit back a chuckle. The priest cleared his throat, trying not to smile himself, and then leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

“So he builds. How much is a soul worth, Mrs. Sharpe? How many dandies and playthings balance out the scars on a man’s past? There is a number but I don’t know it for he won’t tell me. And there it is. All I _do_ know is he calls himself Cavendish and he hides names on his treasures as he works off his sins. Some might call that a sad story but I think otherwise.

“In fact, I think _you_ might even change the ending.” Father Martin stood up and whistled. The sound carried over the graveyard, and within minutes a rustle in the grass headed their way.

A dog popped up through the hedge, bright-eyed and barking.

Edith burst into tears and slipped to her knees as the dog ran to her.


	6. Chapter 6

Father Martin left her, murmuring his assurance that he would be nearby, but Edith barely heard him. In her arms the dog squirmed, making a sincere attempt to lick every exposed part of her, and his joy made her laugh through her tears. She clung to him, stroking his silky fur, and her fingers found a collar on him now; cord leather expertly braided into a seamless ring.

“I’ve missed you,” she confessed to the dog, who snuffled and kept licking her hands, his tail a mad dancing flag of flossy silk. “Brave little friend.”

“Hero!” called out a melodious voice.

Edith’s head shot up; the dog squirmed once more and leapt from her arms, making a mad dash across the graveyard. She watched him fly, caught sight of the distant figure calling the dog.

“Hero, where are you?” called the man again.

She couldn’t draw breath, couldn’t move as she stared. Edith fought the dizziness that threatened to pull her under. Bracing her hands on the ground, Edith locked her gaze on the person striding forward.

Tall.

Lanky.

Ever so dear--

The dog veered off at the last moment and circled around his master, barking, bouncing madly in his joy. He failed to distract the man, however, who had caught sight of Edith.

He swayed.

Edith scrambled up, struggling with her skirts, hearing a hem tear and not giving a damn as she began to run. Her steps crunched over the gravel, snagged in the long grasses but she never looked down as she herself flew through the graveyard.

The man dropped to his knees with a heavy, graceless ‘thump’ and let go of the sack he’d been carrying as well. He would have fallen forward but Edith reached him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him to her, supporting him.

A rush of his scent along with his warmth drove the breath from her body; Edith clung tightly, bending her face to press frantic kisses along the top of his head and letting his black curls brush her face. “Thomas! Oh Thomas!”

Her heart thumped painfully in her chest.

“E-E-Edith . . .” came his disbelieving gasp against her waist. “You finally haunt me! You c-cannot know how I’ve longed for your spirit to appear to me!”

“I’m no ghost! I’m real, I’m right _here!_ ” she replied, pulling away long enough to catch his face in her hands and tip it up towards her.

He wore a leather patch over his left eye, but the other one, soulfully blue, stared up at her, filling with unshed tears. “You _cannot_ be real, beloved; I haven’t earned nearly enough grace for my prayer to be answered!”

Rather than argue with him further, Edith lowered her lips to his, brushing them with the lightness of a butterfly’s wing in a delicate kiss. She felt him tremble, felt the heat of his breath against her mouth. The tear building in his one good eye spilled down his thin cheek.

“Real,” Edith assured him, speaking the word against his lips. 

She wasn’t quite prepared for the sudden force of his hug tightening around her hips, nor the sudden lift as he rose, pulling her into the air, but Edith braced herself giddily.

Thomas spun her, and halfway through, faltered, staggered a bit before slowly lowering her down to the ground again. The dog gave a quick bark and planted his bottom, watching them.

Edith braced him but wasn’t quite strong enough to do it; they both dropped into the grass in graceless heaps. She laughed at the absurdity of the moment, feeling breathlessly light and caught up in a dream.

“You _tell_ me this is real, and my senses agree with you but I still cannot take it i-in,” Thomas sighed, bracing his hands behind him. “And if this is my final descent into lunacy, then I embrace it, willingly.”

“If this is your final descent into lunacy then you won’t be alone,” Edith replied. “Doggy and I are going with you.”

Thomas smiled crookedly. “Hero. I named him Hero since he certainly earned the name.” 

Hearing it, the dog crept over, tail wagging, and rested his chin on Thomas’ thigh. 

Edith found herself smiling, but it faded as she spoke again. “You died. I saw your ghost.” She lifted her hand to cup his cheek under the eyepatch and her fingers touched the scar along his cheekbone under it.

Thomas nodded, turning his head to better see her. “Yes. I did, for a time. I lay on the floor and felt my spirit—my soul—drift. You . . . needed me. I went. I saw you, saw . . .”

“Lucille,” Edith prompted softly, watching him flinch at the name. Thomas nodded, not saying it. 

“I killed her,” she murmured.

Thomas nodded slowly. “ _That_ was when I felt my soul . . . return. The twisted unholy bond that held me to her broke in that moment and I . . . came back to life.”

Neither of them spoke for a while, but Edith let her hand reach for his, feeling a surge of love when Thomas’ roughened fingers interlaced with hers.

After a while, Edith shifted, studying him in the golden light as he sat lost in thought, his free hand stroking Hero’s fur.

Leaner. A few more lines bracketed his mouth, and the eyepatch gave him a slightly exotic look now, but his hair was as dark and tangled as ever, and the faint hint of beard along his chin made him look older.

He caught her looking at him and lowered his face. “Don’t,” Thomas mumbled. “I’m rather f-flawed now.”

“Aren’t we all?” Edith reminded him, bring his fingers to the scar on her own cheek.

*** *** *** 

They couldn’t remain sitting in the middle of the cemetery, so after stiffly getting to their feet, Thomas picked up the burlap sack, settling it across one shoulder. He took Edith’s hand in his, and pointed with his chin to the church. “Come; let me show you my workshop.”

Edith followed him, not sure what to expect. 

They passed by the main doors and went around the corner where a series of steep stone steps led down to a basement door below ground level. Thomas fished out a key and unlocked it, pushing it open. Hero darted in, and Edith followed, him, feeling curious, a little tired and a bit hungry as well.

She heard the scratch of a Lucifer, and then light spilled out from a candle. Thomas lifted it high, and lit first one lantern and then another, providing light throughout the cellar. “Saint Kentigern’s is lovely but not very modern, I’m a-afraid. Candles and fireplace mostly.”

Edith looked around, finding it very much to her liking. The cellar had been remade into a home, with a workshop at one end and living quarters at the other. Most of the furniture had an ecclesiastical look to it, with angels and crosses carved into the chairs that framed a small scrubbed wood table. She wandered in, aware that something was missing, but not sure what.

Thomas stood back, setting his bag down once again. “Father Martin lets me stay here. He says it’s in exchange for minor work and my vow, but I’m clearly a charity case.” He said it without rancor or bitterness; matter of factly. 

Edith glanced up at him. “You’re alive; that’s _all_ that matters to me.”

He smiled crookedly again, and Edith realized it was because of the scar on his cheek; that the wound had damaged some of the muscles there.

“And those are my very thoughts about _you,_ ” he murmured. “I thought you were dead. For a long time I didn’t know what the aftermath had been after that last night. I dared not ask.”

Thomas hesitantly moved closer, his gaze melancholy. “I assumed you were dead, or if not, that you and McMichael had left together. It seemed fitting, since _he_ had the courage to save you and I did not.”

“That’s not true,” Edith objected. “Alan . . . rescued me, but you, _you,_ Thomas, saved me. If you had not come in that last moment to help me against Lucille, I would have died in the red snow.”

“Too little, too late. My whole history in those four words.”

“You’re looking to the past again,” Edith pointed out, feeling alarmed. “I’m still not there, Thomas, any more than you are.”

He laughed then, a bitter little sound as he moved to sit at the table, waving her to sit opposite him. “The past. Tell me my darling Edith, are we ever truly free of it? I carry the Sharpe name, the tainted, notorious Sharpe legacy. How can you _care_ for so corrupted a man as I?”

“Because you love me,” Edith replied directly. “You chose me for yourself. Not to play out a scheme, although that was your first intention; not to follow through on the plan that had happened to others before me. _You_ chose _me_ , Thomas. For love.”

“And my loving you warrants you loving me back?” he asked, his voice full of weary pain. “You truly _believe_ this?”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes, feeling a wave of frustration at how obtuse Thomas was being. Reaching over she took one of his hands, gripping it tightly. “I did, I do, and I always will. Now I think you should pack your things and come back to Carlisle with me.”

He pressed his lips together. “I . . . can’t.”

The frustration became a needle of worry. “Why not?”

For the first time since finding him, Thomas gave her a look of dull fear.

“Because I am cursed, dear Edith. This hallowed ground is all that keeps the ghost of my sister from murdering me in my sleep.”


	7. Chapter 7

Stupidly she stared at him, feeling heat and chill flush through her, fear and fury in little bolts of pain. In one black moment her joy vanished, disappearing to leave Edith shivering in mute fury.

Thomas dropped his head, his voice low. “Death was not the end, alas, not for a madness as great as hers it seems.”

Edith balled her hands into fists and slammed them on the table, relishing the pain, the sudden shock in Thomas’ face as his head jerked up in surprise. “No!” she hissed. “No!”

“It’s true,” he snapped back, tossing his dark curls out of his face. “I wish it weren’t, but it is! I may roam anywhere I like throughout Cumbria, but if I should sleep anywhere other than over soil made sacred, she comes for me, wraps her rotting spectral hands around my throat and gleefully throttles the breath from me, laughing all the while. I have _tried_ to escape, Edith, I’ve tried! Oh I spoke the truth when once I told you ghosts here are not to be taken lightly.” 

Edith wanted to howl. Absurd of course, but her pain was wearing through her patience, and the added agony of having Thomas so close added a tinge of lunacy. She fought down the urge to claw the table, and forced herself to breath evenly. “It’s not . . . fair,” came her anguished whisper as tears dribbled out the corners of her eyes. “Not FAIR!”

He pushed his chair back and rose, coming over to her, pulling her up smoothly against him, rubbing his long hands over her back in soothing strokes. Edith clung to him, pressing her face against the worn fabric of his vest, stiffly stubborn, but gradually relaxing against the comfort of Thomas’ enveloping arms. His touch pacified her anger somewhat, and the feel of his face against the crown of her head . . . lovely sensations she had missed so very much . . . 

“Beautiful brave Edith,” he murmured. “I prayed for _you_ to haunt me. For your golden tresses and beloved smile. Had your ghost come for me, I would have gone, and gladly.”

That did make her smile, and she tightened her arms around him.

“How _did_ you f-find me?” he whispered into her hair.

“The toys,” Edith murmured. “I found the first one in the nursery, and the other one at Barlow’s.”

She felt him stiffen and draw back, looking down at her with concern. “Toy in the nursery? You mean the juggler?”

“No, the one with Hero,” Edith corrected him. “Running down the track.”

“No,” Thomas interjected. “No, _that_ one I gave away to the butcher’s child here in town. I remember it, because he begged his mother for a dog like Hero. You said you found it in the nursery? Edith, did you go _back_ to Allerdale Hall?” this last came out in a strangled whisper of such dread that she felt her flesh crawl.

“Yes,” she replied, a little defiantly. “In daylight, with Detective Burton. It is . . . just a house, Thomas. No ghosts.”

“I didn’t put the toy there,” he stated flatly. “Not I. I haven’t been back, I _refuse_ to go back, I look away from that direction when I am outside, Edith. That house . . .” he trailed off, and then took a breath, regaining courage. “That house is anathema to me. More than ghosts, it is filled to the brim with a legacy of madness and pain that I want _nothing_ to do with _ever_ again, do you hear?”

His hands were on her shoulders now, clutching them tightly, and Edith brought her own hands up, laying them on his and forcing them to loosen. “Yes, I hear you,” she pointed out, breaking into his tension. “It’s all right, Thomas. Allerdale Hall won’t be standing much longer anyway.”

His fear shifted to confusion, and he cocked his head, looking like Hero so much that Edith tried not to smirk. She lifted her chin. “I’m selling it, and the new owners are going to bring it down with dynamite.”

Thomas staggered back, bracing against the stone wall, tipping his face up. Alarmed, Edith moved to him as he laughed, a slow chuckle working its way up his long throat. “Thomas?”

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just . . . been a day of shocks. My beloved wife has returned from the dead, and my ancestral home will soon be no more than a pile of moldering firewood . . . you have to admit, it’s a lot to take in all at once.”

She had to give him that, and laid a hand on his chest. “And I’ve found a husband I wasn’t sure was alive or dead through mysterious circumstances only to find he’s taken a vow of penance and is tethered to a church as his only sanctuary from a vengeful ghost. Should I ever need a plot for another story, I may not have to look very far.”

Thomas laughed, and she joined him, the two of them giving into the absurd mirth of the moment, barely able to meet each other’s gazes without breaking into fresh chuckles each time. But her gaze grew tender, and his did too, his one eye watching her as Edith drifted closer and tipped her face up to his. 

“I love you,” she murmured the rush of emotion making her voice shaky.

“And I you,” Thomas replied. “From the moment I saw you in your little gold spectacles, looking deliciously prim behind the typewriter in your father’s building. A chickadee in a forest of nightingales and swans.”

Edith felt heat rush up her face and down her stomach, leaving warmth that she felt kindle into desire. She smirked.

“And there _you_ were, a great tall popinjay in black, so very sure of your own charms.”

“You put me in my place,” Thomas reminded her, pulling Edith so she was pressed to his chest. She saw the flush along his face, felt new warmth where their bodies touched. “Magnificently, as I recall.”

“Then you had to go and admire my story, ruining my attempts at nonchalance,” Edith replied, shifting yet closer, her face close to his. “It’s so difficult to be indifferent to a reader.”

“Brilliant chickadee,” he murmured, and kissed her.

Edith kissed him back, running her tongue lightly over the seam of his lips, thrilled when they parted for her. Their kiss grew firmer, more insistent; Edith broke for breath and planted little pecks around the edges of his mouth, savoring his little sighs of pleasure.

“Edith,” he pleaded softly, “Edith . . .”

“You are _not_ going to respect my morning this time,” she warned him breathlessly. “ _Or_ my midday, or afternoon, or evening.”

“I am . . . a sinner,” Thomas groaned, his hips rocking against her as Edith ground back, well-aware of his heavy erection against her thigh, even through layers of petticoats and skirt.

“You are forgiven,” she gasped, stroking her cheek against his, “now where is your _bed,_ Mr. Sharpe?”

He spun her, moving them both in a blind waltz along the stone wall, reaching an archway with curtains, and tugged them open to reveal an alcove bed set snugly in it. They tumbled onto it, making the feather mattress puff under their weight, and somehow in the darkness the fumbling struggle with buttons and fabric added an edge to their appetite.

Edith let her hands slide over Thomas’ body, felt his roughened fingers slipping under her skirts and up the outsides of her thighs. Heat bloomed everywhere under his touch; she squirmed against him, not yet matching his slow grind, and then finally, finally finding their rhythm long sensual moments later when only a few layers of damp fabric lay trapped between them.

Sweet heat rose from her bared skin, and when Thomas pressed his kisses down her throat to her breasts she felt them ache with pleasure. The flick of his tongue against each tip made her cry out; Edith raked her fingers through his curls, breathing raggedly.

“Edith my love . . .” Thomas sighed, rubbing his face along her chest. She shifted under him, slipping her hands between their bodies.

“Mine,” she assured him, cupping her fingers around his thickly veined shaft, caressing it with a boldness she hadn’t realized she possessed. He throbbed in quick response, his gasp heavy with lust. 

Thomas stroked a gentle touch along the seam of her sex and the calluses on his fingers magnified the sensation. Edith rocked her hips, sliding herself against his hand, each motion slicker than the last. Impatiently, she wrapped a thigh around Thomas’ waist and guided him with her hand, breathing into his ear. “Yours,” Edith sighed and arched her hips up.

He drove into her and the pleasure made both of them cry out, voices mingling. Edith wound her arms around his shoulders, hanging on, blind to everything but the slick bliss of his strokes, of the rising breathless delight that grew with every rock of their hips. 

It was too much, rushing over her senses, searing in long liquid jolts through her small frame. She rode it out, finally beginning to slump when Thomas cried out against her cheek, his body tensing hard. Edith felt the sullen heat of his passion spray deep between her hips.

Turning, Edith caught his lower lip between her teeth, nipping it before softening to a deep kiss, drawing his shaky breath as his body slowed and slumped on hers. 

For long moments they lay together, limbs entangled in their lover’s knot in the quiet darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

“You cannot stay,” Thomas told her firmly. “Your household will worry, Edith. The very last complication we need now would be for the police to come searching for you.”

She hated the fact that he was right, particularly in this instance. It wasn’t a matter of morality per se—although Edith had no doubt that an overnight absence would set tongues wagging among the few acquaintances she had—but something much more troublesome. 

And that was that it simply didn’t seem fair to have to worry about ghosts when the day had barely passed noon.

She felt the press of Thomas around her spine as they lay curled on the alcove bed, and the warmth of his breath against the nape of her neck felt lovely, especially when he also kept running his hand along the curve of her hip as he spoke. “I know,” she agreed in a slightly sulky tone. “I wish we could simply run away together. Remember when we spoke of that before?”

“Mmmm,” came his warm tone, and now she felt his lips shifting to the side of her neck. “Oh yes. I remember _that_ night well.”

So did his body, if she was any judge of the prodding against her backside. She shifted, not sure if the move would encourage or discourage him.

Edith had her answer a second later when Thomas’ hand slid from her hipbone down the front of her thigh, pulling her back to him more firmly. “Again? I thought you’d be exhausted by now.”

“Stamina is essential to an engineer,” he purred. “I’m exceedingly caught up in how . . . all our moving parts . . . work.”

“Cad,” she chided in a loving tone over her shoulder.

Thomas chuckled, and a moment later, added in a softer voice, “Forgive me, love. I _can_ control myself, especially if you’d rather not . . .”

“Shhhh,” she rolled over to face him. “More. Please.”

This time matters were slower, full of shy tenderness and playful intimacy. Edith found out Thomas was ticklish; that he could flirt in highly inappropriate French; that a firm nip to the front of his lean throat drew helpless groans from him. Edith was fascinated. She’d never been this close to a male body, and although she’d read a great deal—and much of it material her father would have never approved of—she was coming to realize how beautiful her husband was.

She kissed his face, working her way to his eyepatch, tracing a gentle finger over it. “May I see?”

“Edith,” Thomas sighed. “You have me at your mercy, and I wouldn’t want to spoil the moment.”

“You have seen my freckles and my poor bosom,” she pointed out. “If anything would spoil the moment it would be those.”

“Your freckles are delightful, and as for your bosom . . .” Thomas began, but Edith caught his wandering hand and gently pushed it aside. He gave a comic pout that twisted into a smile. The smile faded as she pulled the eyepatch up.

The lids had drooped, and the eye itself was seemingly frozen, Edith noted. Thomas could pass without wearing the patch if he wanted, she thought; his disfigurement was mild at best. Edith had seen far worse on the streets of Buffalo and said so. The scar under it was deep though; there was no disguise for that.

“Ugly,” Thomas murmured gloomily.

“Is it?” she asked. “You can wear the patch or not; I don’t care—we both have scars from that night. We both survived.”

He brushed a strand of her blond hair back, studying her intently. “We must _continue_ to survive, Edith. And I don’t know how but I shall find a way.”

“Well the first step should be to bring down the Hall,” came her practical reply. Edith draped herself over him now, enjoying the way he responded under her, the way he stroked her hair.

“That,” he sighed, “will be complicated, to be sure.”

“Mmmm?” Edith found herself distracted when Thomas shifted his touch from her hair to her spine, his long fingers sliding down the trough of it to the cleft of her buttocks.

“The clay,” he explained. “It’s fairly liquid. The engineers will have to set the charges in stages, from bottom to top so that the initial blast will create suction, and draw the building down into the soup of the mine itself.”

She tried to picture what he meant; years of her father’s various projects came to mind, battling for her attention against the press of skin to skin. “I thought it would simply fly to pieces.”

“Parts of it . . . may,” Thomas struggled to focus, his hands now sliding around the curve of her bottom. Edith wriggled, adjusting her body against his, angling herself to tease the tip of his erection, “but most shall ssssiiiiiiiink----”

So saying, his shaft slid into her, and Edith tossed her head back, eyelids fluttering. “I seeeeeeee . . .” came her pleasured reply, and after that the conversation shifted to more immediate matters.

*** *** *** 

By the time they’d dressed and climbed the steps of the basement, the afternoon sun was shone from the west, and a breeze had picked up. Edith felt a welcome soreness throughout her body, and tried not to look too smug. 

Thomas escorted her to the ramshackle parsonage at the edge of the churchyard, his expression thoughtful. Hard rapping on the door brought Father Martin to it; he welcomed them inside. Hero darted in after them.

“I think we have much to discuss,” Father Martin led the way into the small kitchen where a plate of scones sat along with jam, honey and churned butter. Edith’s stomach growled, and she blushed.

The priest waved a quick blessing over the food. “Eat. I’m sure you both have an appetite.”

It took a moment for all of them to settle in; Edith felt Hero come lie on her feet under the table as Thomas dropped his lean frame into another chair at the table. Father Martin stood by the stove, hands around his cup of tea. She took a bite of scone, enjoying it as she waited for someone to speak.

“So,” Father Martin began. “You seem to have found each other.”

She shot a look at Thomas, who went pink.

“We have,” he spoke up striving for a degree of innocence that didn’t match his blush.

“Oh good. That’s a piece of the puzzle done then,” Father Martin murmured. “I should hate to think this town has more than ONE mysterious one toy maker and American wife seeking her missing husband. Now, let us speak of ghosts.”

Edith shot the priest a wary look, but his expression stayed serious, and when she glanced at Thomas, his countenance was grim as well. “You . . . believe in ghosts?” she asked the priest softly.

“I _am_ rather in the business,” Father Martin pointed out. “And I live in the neighborhood for them. Levity aside, yes, madam. I have sensed the malevolence that stalks your husband.” He shook his head regretfully.

“The good father here came to my aid when I didn’t return before sundown one night,” Thomas supplied quietly. “He came looking for me.”

“Barely in time,” Father Martin rumbled. “Wrapped in black fog, strangling under the dark canopy of a willow tree, all within view of the house that has haunted you both. She’s a wrathful spirit that one, and I am sorely puzzled as to how to help lay her to rest.”

“Exorcism?” Edith asked, but Father Martin shook his head again.

“She’s not possessing anyone as far as I can see, and there are no particular rites in the Anglican church that deal with the dead once they’ve died. If she didn’t believe in the Lord when she was above ground, it’s not much use to lead Him against her now.”

“So there’s nothing we can _do_?” Edith demanded, a sense of outrage welling up in her. She half-rose, but Thomas laid a hand on her forearm to calm her.

“I didn’t say that,” Father Martin replied. “While we live there is always hope, and I _am_ a firm believer in hope. We cannot be the only ones who have ever had to face a malevolent ghost so I am consulting a few colleagues and doing a bit of research through various church documents.”

“I’ve been reading too,” Thomas admitted. “What folklore I can find, mostly, which isn’t much.”

Edith bit her lower lip. “She wants to kill you. She cannot reach you . . . so she’s using . . . me.”

Both men stared at her. Edith picked up a scone from the plate and set it on the table. “The toy. The one at Allerdale Hall. She put it there. She knew I would find it.”

“The toy?” Father Martin asked, but Thomas interjected.

“The running dog. The one I gave to the butcher’s child.”

Father Martin’s face grew flinty; he took the scone up, staring at it a long time before speaking in a monotone. “To young Danny Clarke, yes. He’s gravely ill right now. No one’s sure what’s wrong with him but his mother thinks he ate a handful of fire-berries.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A deep and sincere 'thank you!' to everyone who has read, left kudos or commented! I really appreciate your support for this story!

Saying goodbye twisted Edith’s heart with pain; she laid her fingers against Thomas’ protesting lips. “No. It’s too close to sunset to risk it. Father Martin will see me home, and I’ll be back as soon as I can tomorrow morning, I promise.”

“Edith,” he murmured in one last pleading whisper, kissing her fingertips. 

She smiled. “Yes, I love you too.”

It took everything she had not to look back as she and Father Martin climbed into the buggy. She knew Thomas was watching her go, heard Hero barking, the sound getting fainter and fainter as they traveled on the bumpy road to Carlisle.

When they passed beyond the curve, putting Archon Town behind them, Father Martin cleared his throat. “What are you thinking, Mrs. Sharpe?”

“Edith, please,” she interjected. “I believe after what we have been through I may count you as a friend. And I’m troubled because of my own experiences with ghosts.”

“Tell me of them,” Father Martin asked quietly. She did, beginning with the terrible childhood memories of seeing her sable skeleton mother, of hearing whispered warnings of ‘Crimson Peak.’ Edith continued further, speaking of the apparitions within Allerdale Hall and their desperate warnings to her; their painful attempts to alert her to the growing danger of the place. The buggy reached the outskirts of Carlisle, and the late afternoon traffic began to fill the road around them.

Edith sighed, looking over at the priest, who gave her an encouraging glance before slowing his horse. 

“You have shown great courage, Edith. You may have to draw on that strength again before this is through. Which way from here?”

“That way, around Rose Lane,” she told him. “Number 22.”

The priest turned the horse, setting him trotting before speaking again. “Now that I can speak more freely myself, I will tell you that for a while, I feared young Thomas would attempt to take his own life. Those first days, I would check on him throughout the night, I kept my medicines and dangerous compounds locked away. I had to remind him that there are reasons beyond our knowing for the way things happen.”

She swallowed hard, her mouth dry at the thought of Thomas deliberately killing himself.

Of spectral Lucille waiting, arms outstretched to pull him to her in triumph.

“How did you convince him to . . . live?”

“Not easily,” the priest admitted. “For hours, days, he sat facing the wall, saying nothing. Had it not been for the dog, he might have starved himself, but I reminded your husband that he was in charge of his companion, responsible for his well-being. In my experience, it’s difficult to resist the non-judgmental love of a pet.”

Edith nodded. “True. A hero twice over then.”

“Yes. I also gave him tasks, to occupy his time. When I found he had an aptitude for mechanics I set him to work on the boiler in the parsonage, and had him redesign the bellows for the organ. Work is also balm for a heart as battered as his. I heard much about _you_ during that time, Edith.”

She felt the heat rush up across her features, and lowered her face to hide it.

He slowed the buggy in front to Edith’s townhouse, climbing down and helping her alight. A footman came out and took the reins, leading the buggy around the corner as Edith and Father Martin went up the steps to the house.

“Ma’am you have a visitor,” Jane began, dropping a curtsey to her and the priest. “In the parlor.”

“Who?” Edith handed over her hat, hoping Jane wouldn’t notice the grass stains on it.

“Detective Constable Burton, ma’am.” Jane scurried away.

For a moment Edith hesitated, but only for a moment. She looked to Father Martin. “I confided my belief to the constable that Thomas was still alive. He was going to make inquiries.”

“I know Edmund Burton well,” Father Martin nodded. “A good man.”

Feeling reassured, Edith led the way to the parlor. Seeing her, Burton rose up, his expression slightly surprised as Father Martin came in behind her. “Mrs. Sharpe; Father.”

“Burton,” Father Martin acknowledged, and moved to one of the upholstered chairs, waiting until Edith had greeted the detective and seated herself on the settee.

“I have found my husband,” Edith began. Burton’s eyebrows went up.

“Better work than my own then, ma’am. All I’ve discovered was that both toys were distributed by a singular person calling himself Cavendish, whereabouts unknown, but generally found at the ironmongers’s end of the weekday market. Where is he now?”

Edith and Father Martin looked at each other, and she spoke up. “At St. Kentigern’s.”

“Ah.” Burton managed, slightly confused. “I see. And why would he be there?”

“Sanctuary, Burton. Suffice it that the man is . . . under ecclesiastical provision at the moment.” Father Martin replied in a quiet way.

Burton frowned a little. “Is he of sound mind?”

“Yes,” Edith protested slightly. “Of _course_ he’s sane!”

“That’s good news then,” Burton cocked his head. “Although his return may complicate matters regarding the sale of Allerdale Hall. I’m no solicitor, but if I remember rightly, the estate along with all the property were his, and passed into your hands only on the assumption that your husband was dead and there were no other heirs. If he’s not dead, then . . .” 

“Oh.” Edith winced a bit, realizing the truth of the detective constable’s words. “Yes, that does make things . . . tricky.”

A rush of confusion hit her, and she tried to remember the name of the lead lawyer at Featherstone and Taft. “Mr. Myles will surely be able to advise me—us—in due time.”

“What I said before still holds, Mrs. Sharpe,” Burton sighed. “The crux as I see it lies in whether your husband wishes to return to being Thomas Sharpe, or whether he would prefer to live under his new name. Returning from the dead isn’t unheard of, but it means once again taking up the responsibility of his birthright.”

“Given the misery of his childhood and the ultimate horrors of the last few years, I find no fault in his desire to free himself of everything Allerdale Hall represents!” Edith replied hotly. “Mistreatment, neglect, cruelty, poverty: what _possible_ enticement is there in becoming Sir Thomas once more?”

“Pride,” Father Martin murmured, “and duty. Forgive me, my dear, but America is young. Here on Albion’s shores, a family name is a badge of honor. Some Englishmen die for their names.”

Her expression told both men exactly what she thought of that particular sentiment, and while Burton looked perplexed, Father Martin smothered a small smile.

“Well it’s not my choice to make,” she pointed out. “I’ll leave that decision to him.”

“He’ll have to hurry then,” Burton muttered, and handed her a folded piece of paper. “Found this being handed out on my way here.”

Edith opened the paper and the first lines screamed up at her.

!AUCTION!, the handbill read. TO BE HELD NEXT WEEK. FURNITURE AND FURNISHINGS OF EXCEEDING QUALITY TO BE AUCTIONED OFF! In smaller letters it added, _The Estate of Allerdale Hall is to be sold to the general public until completed. For Inventory lists or further inquiries, please contact R. Mensinger, in care of Featherstone and Taft, sol. 1773 North Riding Road, Carlisle, Cumb._

Not for the first time, Edith was sorely tempted to let fly with some of the words her father would have used in this sort of situation. Being a lady had its drawbacks, she sourly realized, especially now, when both men were looking at her.

“Just lovely. So now what?” came her exasperated grumble.

“I propose you write and ask for a delay,” Burton advised. “If they press for a reason you should tell them that you want, oh, to have the paintings appraised or some such nonsense. That should buy you at least another week or so at the very least. I know some of the pieces there must run to hundreds of pounds.”

“Good,” Father Martin agreed. “If you write the note tonight you can have it posted before coming back to Archon Town tomorrow. The pair of you can discuss what you want then, and pick up matters after that—at least the _practical_ ones.”

“Yes, the _practical_ ones,” Edith agreed, shooting the priest an understanding glance that made it clear that any discussion of ghosts wouldn’t include the detective.

*** *** ***

As she got ready for bed, Edith finished brushing her hair, lost in thought. She still ached a bit in places not seen, and the memory of how she’d gotten those aches brought a grin. Fleetingly she acknowledged to herself that it was good that her courses were just done; chances of a baby were slim now, although she and Thomas would have to be more circumspect in the coming weeks.

She looked up, catching the glint of her mother’s wedding ring on its chain where it hung from the corner of her mirror. Edith reached to touch it reverently. 

Her father had worn that chain and ring under his shirt since the day her mother had died; had been wearing it when he’d been murdered. Edith supposed she should have left it on him, but she took comfort in seeing it---a memento of both her parents, joined in one. A simple thing, but dearly special to her.

Edith looked down at her own ringless left hand and rubbed the bare finger, torn between sorrow and relief at not seeing the ornate garnet she’d once worn there. That particular ring had never truly been hers, true . . . but she felt an emptiness to her hand just the same.

She wondered where the ring was.


	10. Chapter 10

Dawn had barely begun when Edith dismissed the cab and stepped through the gates surrounding St. Kentigern’s. Whether the driver thought she was mad for arriving so early she didn’t care; to see Thomas was worth it. Clutching her basket, Edith made her way around the church to the basement steps in the dim light and knocked hard on the door. Beyond it she heard Hero announcing her presence. She shifted impatiently from foot to foot, and when the door opened, launched herself at Thomas, who caught her easily.

The scratch of his stubble and the rough delight of his kiss made up for the long carriage ride; Edith’s worry dissolved instantly. When they broke for breath, Thomas smiled. A real smile, deep dimples framing his face, his gaze drinking her in like wine. “Good morning my darling!”

“Good morning,” she returned with a smile of her own. “I barely slept, and I’ve brought you some things.”

Thomas ushered her inside, and Edith realized that all the lanterns were lit, that he too must have already been awake. Hero demanded petting and she bent to stroke the delighted dog as she set the basket down. “Didn’t you sleep?”

“A bit. Mostly I rise early these days, and work.” Thomas told her, moving to heat a kettle on the small iron stove set into the alcove across the room for where the bed alcove was.

Her question—‘what work?’-- died on her lips as she looked to the workshop bench, where three new toys sat, paint drying on them. A hand-sized elephant carved from a scrap of oak stood near a cunningly crafted iron top, and beyond that was what appeared to be a little clockwork frog. Edith wandered over, looking more closely at the creations and Thomas drifted after her.

“It’s lovely,” she murmured, examining the elephant’s inlaid bone tusks and glass eyes. “Do you sell them?”

She heard him sigh, and turned to catch the melancholy shift in his expression. Thomas reached out for her hands. Edith let him, feeling the warm strength in his grip. Tugging, he led her back to the scrubbed table and sat, never letting go as she sat too.

“No. I _give_ them away. It’s difficult to explain, but it’s how I am making myself right again. Edith . . . three souls weigh on mine. I was complicit in the deaths of three innocent people, three women who deserved much more than ever I gave them. Father Martin told me that the way to peace would be not only to acknowledge my wrong, but to use my skills to make it right. I cannot bring the dead back to life, but I _can_ honor them by using my craft to create joy in their memories.”

“Penance,” Edith murmured in realization. “ _This_ is what he meant.”

“Penance,” Thomas agreed, his expression solemn. “I’ve vowed to myself to create three hundred toys. One hundred for Pamela. One hundred for Margaret. One hundred for Enola.”

Edith felt a rush of tenderness as she looked at Thomas, and couldn’t speak for a moment. The humility of his choice; this simple and yet serious vow touched her deeply. She squeezed his hands, and received a squeeze back.

“You . . . you understand?”

She nodded. “Yes, I do.”

 

The basket contained a variety of foods, money, personal effects and books. Edith had chosen what she thought would be most helpful, and it amused her that Thomas focused on the wheel of cheese over everything else she unpacked onto the table.  
“Cumbria Pepper,” he purred. “Oh Edith, I adore you for this. A feast!”

“It’s cheese,” she pointed out, although she smirked a little.

“A good one. Better than the porridge and bacon I’ve been living on anyway.” He began to cut into the rind while Edith neatly put away the largess and returned with a comb.

“Sit still,” she ordered, and Thomas did, taking small bites of the wedge in his hand as Edith worked on his curls, trying to put some tidiness to them. Not an easy task, made a bit harder by the length now, and she murmured, “You’re going to need a trim soon.”

“Yes,” he admitted, holding up some of the cheese over his shoulder to her. Edith bent and took a bite before returning to her task. “It has helped to keep me from being recognized, however.”

“Yes about that,” Edith began. “In the rush of . . . everything yesterday we didn’t have much of a chance to talk about the future.”

“True. We _were_ . . . otherwise engaged,” he chortled. When Thomas looked over his shoulder at her, Edith gave him a serious look, and he sobered. “The future,” he echoed contritely. “Yes.”

“Thomas, this is a question of paramount importance, so I want you to think before you answer me, because the choice will determine part of our future. Do you want to reclaim yourself, or would you prefer to start anew?”

She felt him freeze, and giving the comb a final tug, stepped away to see his face. Thomas sat straight, his hair neater now, but the eyepatch very dark against his pale, lean face. He looked straight ahead, his voice a slow monotone.

“There have been Sharpes in this corner of England since the days of good queen Bess. That hall on the hill grew from a glorified daub and wattle keep to the manor house it is today through a lineage of indifferent, sullen, malevolent Sharpes rising to peerage through no more entitlement than the claim of property around them. My _father_ had no more right to his title than that carved elephant over there. He thought of nothing but _himself_ and terrorized those he was supposed to protect! And my mother was no better! Reclaim the inglorious name of Sharpe?” Thomas laughed bitterly. “I think _not._ I would rather roam the earth a stranger to every man than call myself such again!”

The vehemence of his response didn’t surprise, her, but Edith still flinched a bit. Laying a hand on his arm, she brought Thomas back to himself with a gaze.

“I suspected that . . . might be the case,” she murmured quietly. “And I _was_ flattered that you called yourself what you did.”

“He too had a darkness, and . . . I _told_ you I liked him,” Thomas reminded her with a sad smile. “When Father Martin asked me my name, it was the first one that came to mind.” 

“All right then. If you are no longer Sir Thomas; if you are going to let the world assume that Sir Thomas Sharpe is dead, then the estate and grounds are now _my_ property,” Edith reminded him, waiting to gauge his response.

Thomas cocked his head, and gave a small sigh. “For the best, I suppose. You’re selling it?”

Edith pulled out paper and her pen. “The contents are to be auctioned off, but I can hold onto whatever you’d like to keep, Thomas. If you want any of the furniture, or painting--”

“—The tools,” he interrupted. “Yes. The contents of my workshop. That’s all I want.”

She tried to keep the astonishment out of her voice. “But . . . the libraries and china, the beds--”

Thomas waved a hand. “Sell the lot, and what doesn’t sell should be burned. I want _none_ of it.” His face was set, half in shadow, half in light from the lantern. “One more step to freedom for us both.”

Edith gave a nod. “Then I suppose the auction can go on. I think the libraries will bring in a good bit of money, as will the art. What about . . .” she hesitated, because this would take courage to ask. “Lucille’s . . . things?”

Both of them looked at each other silently. Edith watched him press his lips together, his gaze melancholy.

“Give those . . . to charity,” Thomas managed, finally. “Let whatever gave my sister comfort go to some other soul in need of it.”

Edith nodded. “Even . . . her jewelry?”

“Paste, most of it,” he admitted. “All but the garnet ring, which Father Martin found _on_ me when I returned from death. It’s somewhere there---” he motioned with his chin towards the workbench drawers. “We should sell that as well, and I will buy you a proper ring of your own.”

“I’m not a married woman anymore,” Edith reminded him. “I’m a widow, and you are . . . a dashing stranger, I suppose.”

He leaned over the table towards her. She’d hoped to be flirtatious, but Thomas’ face held concern. “Edith, we _are_ wed; nothing changes that, I hope.”

She lifted a hand to cup his cheek, her thumb lightly sliding along the scar under his eyepatch. “Nothing changes that,” came her assurance. 

*** *** *** 

Arm in arm they walked the paths of the graveyard when Hero made his needs known, and Edith found herself feeling almost shy. Apparently Thomas felt the same way, because she kept catching him stealing glances at her, little moments where his gaze seemed one of delighted disbelief.

“I want to skip about,” he admitted, finally laughing. “Ridiculous as that sounds.”

Edith daringly began to do so, hopping up from one foot to another. Not to be outdone, Thomas followed suit and they bounced their way together down one of the paths, ending up in a small yard, laughing and out of breath, drifting into a tender kiss under the yew tree there.

She dropped her face, and realized what the little tombstones were around them, feeling slightly stricken. Thomas caught her gaze and realized it himself, standing very still himself.

“Your baby,” she murmured. “What did you name him?”

For a long moment they stood in silence in the shade.

“She called him Charles,” Thomas admitted in a hoarse whisper. “Edith--”

“Did you love him?” Edith asked, feeling a twist of pain in her chest. A hard question, but one she wanted, _needed_ an answer to.

“Yes,” Thomas admitted, his voice breaking in pain. “I did. He was sickly and overly small and I thought him wonderful.” A tear began to form in his eye, spilling over. “But . . . Lucille . . . felt I loved him more than I did her.”

Edith froze. This was new. And unbearably painful. She moved closer, sliding her arms around Thomas, feeling his suppressed shaking. “Oh God. She killed him because . . .”

“. . . of that,” Thomas gulped a sob. “Charles. I buried him in the mausoleum, w-wrapped his little body in silk. I had no right to pray over him, no way to atone for his conception, his birth, his . . . death . . . .”

Edith fought her own tears, gripping Thomas tightly. “Shhhhhhh . . .”

“F-father Martin has assured me his innocence m-means he’s in heaven, but--”

“He is!” Edith insisted softly. “Shhhhh . . .”

They stood under the yew for a long time, clinging to each other, lost in tears together.


	11. Chapter 11

She heard more throughout the day, but lying in his arms made it easier to take and give comfort. Even in his pain Thomas tried to keep his confessions soft, and honest. Edith had suspected many of the things he told her; they reflected what Lucille had bragged or admitted first.

Still it hurt, it bewildered Edith at times. She’d grown up loved and cherished by her parents. Her father had delighted in her accomplishments and treated her well all her life so it seemed inconceivable to her that anyone would raise children the way the two Sharpe siblings had been. The fact that neither of them ever had any true advocate except each other explained much.

“I realized early on that what we were doing, that what we had become was _wrong,_ ” Thomas murmured. “Yet I could not stop. It had become ingrained in me to support her, to . . . love her. I could have walked away from Allerdale Hall without a qualm. Not Lucille; it was her world.”

“ _You_ were her world,” Edith corrected gently, kissing his head. “Allerdale Hall was where she knew she had control over us.”

He made a small sound of agreement as they lay entwined on the alcove bed, sharing comfort rather than sensual intimacy at the moment in the semi-darkness. “I find myself still unable to separate the good from the bad sometimes, Edith. My talents, my tastes, my . . . appetites. Are they truly my own? Or are they forever tainted by my sister’s tutelage? What is normality for me?”

Another difficult question, and Edith sighed, her head on his chest. “I don’t know. I think that those will be up to you to discern, Thomas.”

“I suppose,” he murmured uncertainly. “I enjoy . . . laughing. Lucille did not. And reading. I can lose myself in a book such as yours for hours at a time. Treatises, the morning papers, novels . . .”

Edith smiled to herself. “I’ve brought you two in fact. _The Emperor’s Candlesticks,_ and _Red Pottage._ ”

“Wonderful! Thank you,” Thomas replied. She felt his hands slide down her back, fingers lightly running through her hair. “You’ve such a waterfall of gold . . .”

“It’s a nightmare to comb, and forever falling out of my pins,” Edith grumbled. “I once told father I would rather hack it off and pass as his son if I thought could get away with it.”

She felt his chuckle under her cheek. “I’m very glad you didn’t follow through on that threat. For one thing it would have made our courtship a bit awkward.”

“Just a little,” Edith agreed. “To say nothing of the reactions of Alan and his mother.”

“Ah, but Eunice might have taken a fancy to you,” Thomas teased. “Imagine that.”

“I’d rather _not,_ thank you,” Edith retorted, and giggled. She sobered a moment as something occurred to her, and pushed herself up to look down at her husband, searching his face. “Lucille . . . she dressed as a man, didn’t she? When she killed . . . my . . . father . . .” It was hard to ask, and Edith gritted her teeth to get the last of her question out.

Thomas looked up at her beseechingly. “Yes. She told me she was going out, but she never _told_ me what she was going to do, I swear! Lucille ordered me to wait at the hotel, saying that you would come looking for me because of the letter with your manuscript. I think . . . I think your father reminded her of _our_ father. The contempt, the humiliating dismissal during the night before. It infuriated her.”

Edith nodded, not able to speak, feeling an odd jumble of fresh anger and sorrow at this revelation. “I hate her.”

“Edith--”

“No,” she spat out. “Hear me out--I _do._ She killed and felt nothing at doing it. No regret, no second thoughts. For God’s sake, Thomas, she ended up killing _you!_ And I will never forgive myself because I didn’t stop her from doing that!”

There was more to it of course, but she desperately wanted him to know this particular truth; that his death had hit her hard. “I regretted that we had no _time,_ Thomas. To know each other, to build a life together. Yes it was foolish and impulsive to marry you, and I know I did it in the aftermath of Father’s death, but there _was_ love between us.”

“Yes,” he agreed, touching her face lightly. “Oh yes. When you and I were away from Allerdale, free and . . .”

“Able to be ourselves,” Edith prompted. “What we had was true. You believed in me, in my writing. I believed in you and your engineering. We were . . . free.”

“Free,” he echoed, a brightness coming into his gaze. “Yes, that’s precisely what it was. Free to do whatever we like, to go—” Thomas stopped abruptly, letting his hand drop away. “Oh Edith! I’m still caught. Trapped within the boundaries of these holy grounds. This is maddening!”

“We _will_ figure out a way,” she announced firmly. “We’ll find a way to lay your sister to rest once and for all, I promise you.”

“When you say it like that I almost believe it,” Thomas whispered, rolling with Edith until she was under him. “I wish I had your strength, little wife.”

“You do,” Edith began to undo the buttons of his shirt, her intent clear. 

He glanced down, startled and then amused, watching her pluck each one open before looking into her eyes once more. “Ah, you . . . .”

“Yes, I want you.”

He still looked uncertain although his body responded strongly to her words. Edith fought a laugh as his erection throbbed against her thigh, impressive even through the layers of clothing between them. “Is this all right?”

“Yes, yes . . . !” came Thomas’ enthusiastic sigh as he began to undress her as well. He was slower though, treating her as if she were a present being unwrapped, and Edith found herself feeling breathlessly shy as he took his time in slipping her out of her simple travelling dress and petticoats.

“From chickadee to nymph,” Thomas murmured in soft reverence. “Kissed with gold and dappled with topaz.”

“Shhh,” Edith chided, feeling flattered and embarrassed all at the same time. “You needn’t woo me again; I’m already your wife.”

“The very reason I should,” he told her, following it with a kiss that trailed from her mouth to her chin to her throat. Edith tried to kiss back, but Thomas was quicker, moving down her slight frame with little nibbles that left her breathing more and more erratic. 

“There is a scent to your skin that intoxicates me,” he purred. “Coriander, and your own natural sweetness.”

“Thomas . . .” Edith tried not to laugh at his poetic turn; the romantic streak in him added to his charms, particularly in moments like this. “You’re tickling me!” She rolled over under him, tossing her long hair back.

This deterred him not at all, and he stretched himself out along Edith’s back, burrowing his face in it along the side of her neck. “Know that I am willing to kiss what _ever_ side of yourself you present to me.”

“That _would_ be scandalous,” Edith murmured, feeling slightly shocked and at the same time, aroused. 

“Would it?” he sounded uncertain, so she turned her face to meet his, and arched her spine to force her bottom up against him in a defiant little caress.

“Utterly,” she told him with affection. “And since you know much more about scandalous behavior than I do I believe some tutoring may be required.”

It seemed to be the right thing to say, and when he slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her up on her hands and knees, Edith let him, shivered hotly. Thomas brushed her long curls over her right shoulder, and ran his hands down her ribs, stroking her in gentle glides. “This is another way we may find pleasure in joining,” he murmured. “More primal, this du chien.”

“Show me,” Edith ordered, fighting more shivers when he licked a long stripe up her back. The heat of his breath and scent of his skin were making her slightly frantic, susceptible to the slightest touch. When Thomas slid a warm hand up the inside of one thigh, the delight drove a moan from her.

Edith had always thought herself a rational woman, a person grounded in clear-headed reason, but this new realm of physical sensuality left her dazed. She squirmed, her breath coming in little gasps as she ground against Thomas’ hand, which had wandered between her thighs, caressing the damp tuft there.

He hummed a hungry note, kissing her spine, moving down and nipping at the rounded cheeks of her bottom. Edith’s shock instantly disappeared under the magic of little electric jolts of desire heating her skin. She drew a shuddery breath. “Ooooohhhhh,” she sighed in a drawn-out note of surprise and joy.

“More?” he asked against her skin, his words felt more than heard.  
Not trusting her voice, Edith nodded. Vigorously.

Thomas laughed low in his throat and dipping his head nuzzled under her ass, his face brushing against the delicate curls between her spread thighs.

She felt his tongue stroke there, and cried out, her body jolted into a long flex of joyous pleasure rolling through her in waves at the sensation, the little pearl of her pleasure throbbing against his caressing licks.

Too much; Edith felt her arms falter, and she dropped her head, the side of her face against the mattress as she tried to catch her breath. She’d enjoyed their couplings before, yes, but this intensity, this unexpected aching delight was nothing she’d ever had before.

“Edith . . .” she tried to look over her shoulder but her hair was in the way, so she waved a hand and groaned happily, not sure she could speak yet. She felt Thomas shift behind her, and then felt the warm press of him along the slickened seam of her sex.

She groaned again, putting as much consenting desire as she could in the sound. As Thomas drove himself into her, the deep stretch of accommodating him sent another wave of pleasure through her body. Edith arched back, her hands braced instinctively against the mattress.

Each stroke felt exquisite, thick and deep. Edith groaned, aware of Thomas’ hands on her hips, aware of rocking back to meet his thrusts, of feeling the slow and building roll of sullen delight growing within her again. She couldn’t think, and didn’t try, savoring instead the intimate joy of being loved, of bringing pleasure to Thomas as he rocked against her thighs, his panting louder now.

He spilled, thrusting hard, crying out her name in a slur of sound, and the heat of his seed tipped her once again over into the mindless pleasure that rolled through her in glorious waves that shook her slender form.


	12. Chapter 12

Lists. Inventories. Notes. Dressed in Thomas’ shirt and nothing else, Edith sat up against one wall of the alcove, writing busily. Thomas now bare-chested and in trousers leaned back against the opposite wall, looking over something and making notations of his own. Their legs intertwined in the middle of the bed amid scraps of paper and a sleeping Hero.

“The portraits in the long hall; those can definitely be sold,” Thomas murmured. “Relatives long dead and unremembered. Nothing to keep there.”

“What about the stairwell paintings? Do you want any of those?”

“Possibly the one little landscape at the top of the first bend,” he murmured. “What do you think?”

“The one of the copse of trees? Yes, I don’t mind that one,” Edith assured him. “Let’s see—no to the parlor furniture, the bedroom furniture, the dining room furniture, the mirrors, that terrible canopy thing on the second floor--”

“I used to swing on that, out over the foyer,” Thomas admitted cheerfully. “Dangerous of course.”

Edith gave him a pointed look over the paper she had in her hand. “Actually, _I_ went out over the foyer once myself.”

He winced. “Ah. Yes. The canopy can go.”

“Good. And you do want the whole of your workshop then?”

He nodded. “Nearly everything. I suppose the overhead gears should stay, but anything portable would be much appreciated. Where will you store it?”

“I’m renting a warehouse in Carlisle,” Edith murmured, making another note on the page. “Mr. Myles has been accommodating so far, and I think when he sees how few items I am reserving both he and the auctioneer will be pleased. It’s being re-scheduled for the tenth of the month.” She looked up. “I’m not sure I want to be there. Do you?”

Thomas lifted his chin. There was a new hardness to his expression; a resolve that pleased her. “Do you mean could I stand outside the gate and watch as the contents of Allerdale Hall are carted out and sold off? I wouldn’t miss it for the _world._ I’m sure much of it will show its corruption in the sunlight.” This last came out with a hint of bitterness, and Edith ran her bare foot along his leg comfortingly. 

He sighed. “All I ever truly wanted was to be _free_ of the place. I suppose it was grand and glorious in the past, but it grew into a millstone, passing from one Sharpe neck to another. As for the clay, well---as you can tell, I was far more interested in the _machine_ to move it than the product itself.”

Edith nodded. Between them, Hero gave a short bark and hopped off the bed, running to the door. Thomas climbed off the bed himself, drew the curtains and Edith heard him answer the knock on the door.

Father Martin’s voice mingled with Thomas’ and a few minutes later her husband poked his head through the curtains, smiling. “We are invited to tea and tactics, apparently. Can you be ready in twenty minutes?”

She could.

“Ghosts,” Father Martin grumbled, “far too much has been written about them. Books. Pamphlets. Stories. Poetry. They seem to the third most popular subject in Britain.”

“What are the first two?” Edith wanted to know.

“Religion and taxation,” Father Martin replied wearily. He had set out a lovely repast of buns, clotted cream, and blackberry jam along with strong tea on the parsonage kitchen table, along with stacks of books and leaflets. Edith noted a few of the titles: _A Haunting in Guernsey; The Legend of the White Lady; Our Friends on the Other Side._

“Nevertheless, there are some common ideas concerning them and the news isn’t particularly good,” Father Martin continued. “Seems a lot of the more vengeful types have both a reason to haunt, and a tie to this dimension.”

“A reason to haunt . . .” Thomas interjected. “Murder?”

“In your sister’s case, desire,” the priest said. “She wants to be reunited with you, and since _she_ cannot return to life, _you_ must die. Although . . . you’ve confessed your sins and been absolved, Thomas. If you died now, I doubt you would become a ghost. Not sure your sister seems to understand that.”

“It’s not stopping her from trying,” Edith pointed out. “And I don’t intend to let her succeed.”

“Hear, hear.” Father Martin rumbled. “Do you know where her body lies?”

Edith and Thomas looked at each other. Silence.

Father Martin shook his head. “That would be worth finding out. I’m sure Burton would know. If we can locate where her remains are, that may help us sever whatever anchor or tether she has.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean by that,” Edith asked. “Do you mean like a leash? A sash?”

“Loosely, it means something of significance to the ghost that holds an emotional charge.”

“Like a battery!” Thomas broke in. “A receptor and projector of energy!”

“Yes,” Father Martin agreed. “Something loved.”

Edith caught Thomas’ eye and they both muttered ‘piano!’ in a rush of words as Father Martin helped himself to a bun.

“Her piano,” Thomas murmured confidently. “The Streicher was her pride and joy.”

“A likely candidate,” the priest agreed. “Where is it now?”

“Still in the music room of Allerdale Hall,” Edith told him. “I saw it there two weeks ago. But that’s miles and miles from here.”

“If she loved it as much as you say she did, the years of emotional connection might be strong enough to let her roam this far. And being close to you--” he gestured to Thomas, “creates a link. A bridge of sorts from the dead to the living.”

Thomas paled a bit, even as he fed a section of bun to Hero under the table. “How do we destroy that link then? By destroying the tether?”

“Most of the books indicate that’s a start, yes,” Father Martin nodded. “If the anchor is something that can be destroyed. Sometimes it is not. You, for instance, Edith. You yourself seemed to have been your mother’s anchor.”

“Yes,” Edith whispered, a surge of loving memory washing over her. It was easy now to look beyond the outer appearance of her mother’s ghost, to know that her loving intention was what had mattered in the end. 

“And now that the threat to your life is gone, so is she. Her need to warn you has been satisfied,” Father Martin murmured, patting Edith’s hand. “She was able to go to her rest without any sort of destruction.”

Edith looked up. “There was quite a bit, actually, but I do see your point overall. So if we destroy Lucille’s piano, that would break her connection to Thomas and force her to dissipate?”

“That’s where matters get tricky,” Father Martin confessed with a grim smile. “Sometimes more is needed. A . . . confrontation.”

Nobody spoke for a long moment.

“So . . . it’s up to me,” Thomas finally intoned. “I have to do it. Do this time what I _couldn’t_ do before.”

“It seems that way,” Father Martin agreed. “You are the one she’s haunting, therefore you are the one who must lay her to rest.”

“H-how?”

Edith heard the stress in his voice, the little stammer that came out whenever Thomas felt pained. She took one of his hands in hers and he gratefully tightened his grip around her fingers.

“By telling her ‘no’ I suppose,” Edith murmured. “By standing up to your decision to live.”

Once more a thick silence fell around the table.  
“God help me, I’m . . . afraid,” Thomas admitted in a low whisper. “Terrified for you both, for myself. All my life, I’ve _never_ had the strength to stand up to Lucille!”

“You’re not alone,” Edith assured him, her own voice shaky. “I’ll be with you when the time comes.”

“And I,” Father Martin added. “We will be _your_ anchors, Thomas.”

As if sensing their concerns, Hero gave a little yip from under the table, and that broke the intensity of the mood slightly. Thomas chuckled, and reached down to pick the dog up. 

Delighted, Hero licked his master’s chin.

“Thank you for volunteering as well,” Thomas told the dog. “You’ve already confronted her more than any of us!”

“A survivor,” Father Martin agreed, “but then again, all three of you are. You’ve shown resilience and courage, and have made the choice to turn to the good. Hang onto that; it will be what shall help us triumph.”

*** *** ***

The sun had already set by the time Edith was ready to leave. She stood with Thomas in the graveyard as the cool of twilight curled around them. Overhead the full moon cast a silvery light over the long grass and put a sheen on the marble stones around them.

“I will talk to Constable Burton tomorrow, and arrange for Mr. Myles to pull the items we want to save,” she assured Thomas, who was throwing the little red ball for Hero.

“And I will make another trip to Archon Town market and give away the latest of my toys. This will make nearly sixty-three. Two hundred and thirty seven more to make.”

“The children around here must love you,” Edith smiled.

“The eyepatch frightens some of them, but most of the others are grateful and polite. I myself never played with other children when I was young. Fascinating little personalities some of them have.”

She laughed. 

A moment later, she froze as pale shadows moved among the stones and trees, wandering over the grasses. None of the figures even looked her way as they meandered, and Edith wasn’t sure what to think.

“My love?” Thomas asked her, bringing her attention back to him. She met his concerned gaze.

“Ghosts,” she whispered.

“Here?” he looked around warily, his arm around Edith tightening.

“Here,” she confirmed. “Peaceful ones though, like vapors. They remind me of the lawn party at the McMichael’s. Just . . . strolling.”

Thomas gave a doubtful smile. “I cannot see them so I shall take your word for it.”

Edith was about to reassure him when she felt a chill gust against her face. Turning, she looked to the far side of the grave yard, to where the fence stood between the stones and the distant view of Allerdale Hall.

A black cloud shifted and twisted there, an uncertain shape catching and reflecting moonlight in tendrils and twists that took shape the longer she stared.

Hundreds of them, circling and flitting.

Black moths.

Edith turned quickly, catching Thomas’ face in her hands and pressing a kiss to his surprised mouth. “In! Go lock yourself in; Father Martin and I must go. Stay safe until tomorrow!”

He hesitated only a moment and turned to obey her. Edith shot a glance over her shoulder, watching the silvery ghosts moved to the fence-line, watched them form a barrier of their own.

“Not here,” she whispered fiercely. “On your _own_ ground; that will be a different story.”


	13. Chapter 13

Days passed, and Edith found herself in a strange new routine: in the mornings she rode out to St. Kentigern’s to bring breakfast to Thomas and Hero. By mid-morning they would set off to Archon Town or one of the several little villages nearby to give away whatever toys he had made previously. She enjoyed going with him, staying close by and making notes about the experiences and sights.

Lunch was usually a picnic affair, made easier by the gentle weather of oncoming summer. She and Thomas had found a few favorite spots to bring a basket and dine al fresco; the banks of the Eden and the end of the apple grove in Stanton among them. They were careful not to be noticeable, which meant Edith passed up her finer dresses and wore her hair in a simple chignon most of the time. 

After lunch Thomas would shop or barter for materials through various shops and farms. He had a knack for tinkering and repaired clocks as well as eggbeaters, bicycles and anything with a gear to it. It amused Edith to see how often children would gather around to watch him at work, asking shy questions that Thomas would answer in the same way. Most of them enjoyed playing with Hero as well, who basked in the attention and affection.

By mid-afternoon the three of them would return to the parsonage and have dinner either with Father Martin or in the snug sanctuary under the church. Thomas would sort his newly acquired scrap and plan toys while Edith wrote or dealt with whatever correspondence she’d brought with her. More often than not, though, a look would pass between them and within moments they would find themselves entwined, driven by love and passion to the alcove bed.

It surprised Edith that Thomas was the one to speak of caution when making love. “Now is certainly not the time for a child,” he’d pointed out earnestly. “For all the world knows you are a widow, and for what the world _doesn’t_ know we have far too much to undertake before we are settled and safe.”

She agreed, not quite certain what that would entail, though. Edith wasn’t unknowledgeable about relations; she’d read and heard enough before her marriage to understand the process, but now having _experienced_ the full and happy joy of lovemaking it irked her to think they would have to deny their desires.

Thomas, however, proved a creative and deft master of alternatives, introducing her to several afternoons of sensual, slightly scandalous and slippery seductions. She learned that kissing wasn’t limited to the cheek or the mouth; that what could be touched could be kissed, what could be kissed could be licked, and from there . . . From _there_ , Edith decided, love itself became a lovely game of mutual gratification.

And through it all, to her everlasting joy, Thomas kept his gaze open.

*** *** *** 

The day of the auction was overcast, with thick sullen clouds threatening rain. Edith stood with Constable Burton before the open front doors of Allerdale Hall. He shot her a sympathetic look as he handed her the keys. “Are you sure you wish to watch this?”

Edith nodded. She had no particularly strong ties to any of the contents, but still felt a pang deep inside; this house _had_ been her first home of her married life. Out on the lawn the carpenters had finished building a rough dais for the auctioneer, and the scent of the freshly cut wood lingered in the air. A gaunt man with flaring grey sideburns and an elegant black suit lurched towards her, tipping his hat politely. Edith nodded back to Mr. Myles, making room for the estate solicitor on the steps.

“Quite a turnout. Some of the bidders have come from as far away as London and Calais,” He murmured in a reedy voice. “And of course, there are the collectors looking to pick over the libraries.” He didn’t sound as if he approved of that, but Edith barely focused on his words. Instead she was staring across the lawn to a cordoned-off area, where the crowds were waiting, looking at the tall figure with the eyepatch who was off to one side.

He’d come. Against her wishes, Thomas had insisted on being there. “I must start _some_ where,” he’d told her. “I’ll stay at a distance if you prefer, but my stand must begin soon, Edith.”

And of course he was right, but she couldn’t help feeling protective of him, and sourly realized she was nearly like Lucille in that aspect. A stout man in a green frockcoat interrupted her musings, his bald pate shiny with sweat. What he lacked in hair he made up for with a huge mustache so waxed and curled that Edith fought not to smile.

“Missus Sharpe! So, pleased to see you again, ma’am!” he boomed, flashing her a smile.

“Mr. Mensinger,” she nodded to the auctioneer. Edith liked him; he had been practical and quick in assessing the house, and his men had taken care in packing up the workshop and other selected goods. He knew antiques well enough to tell her she’d be comfortable after the auction.

Not that money was a concern for Edith now, but he meant well and she appreciated it.

“All right then. We’ve some seating set up in the shade for you and the company.” This last was to Mr. Myles, who gave a little nod. Between Burton and Myles, Edith made her way to the upholstered chairs under a pavilion canopy and sat, looking out again towards Allendale Hall and the crowd waiting to be admitted forward.

It was sad, she thought. Like crows coming to pick over the corpse, and although the house was decrepit, it _had_ been a grand place once. Certainly it seemed to intimidate a few of the onlookers, who whispered among themselves.

Mr. Mensinger wasn’t having any of _that,_ though.

“Welcome one and all to Allerdale Hall, better known to us here in Cumbria as Crimson Peak!” he boomed, getting everyone’s attention. “This rich and lovely manor has seen better times, and I’m sure we’re all aware of the tragedies surrounding it. But on _this_ fine day, it’s time to do what’s best for all concerned, eh?”

This brought a bit of a cheer, and Edith looked over to where Thomas stood, trying to gauge his reaction but he was too far away. 

Mr. Mensinger continued. “Those of you holding furniture auction tickets can come forward at this time. Charlie, let’s bring out the settees, shall we?”

And so it began. The furniture looked frayed and a little worse for wear in the grey daylight, but the quality brought good prices. A fistfight nearly broke out over the master bed as a little dealer in a grey suit shouted bids against a pair of French twins who were determined to have it. Back and forth the bid went until finally the dealer offered up nearly ten thousand pounds, leaving the twins sulking for the rest of the day.

By noon the main lots of furniture had been consigned and Mensinger had set up two different areas for selling off the paintings and mirrors. Edith took copious notes while keeping her eye on Thomas, who had wandered about with some of the other onlookers. Constable Burton occasionally left and patrolled around the crowd and Edith was sure he was looking for pickpockets or other unruly types, but the assembled people seemed more curious than anything else. Edith looked up when Mensinger rang a gong for everyone’s attention.

“We are breaking for lunch from now until one o’clock!” he called out. “Afterwards we’ll be finishing off the odds and ends and begin on the libraries. _Whole_ bookcases and contents are to be sold; consult your lists for the lots you want.”

Next to her, Mr. Myles rose up stiffly. “Nearly done then, I suppose. Waste of a day, being witness to this, but that’s the law for you.”

“It needs to be done,” Edith echoed, nodding as the solicitor tipped his hat to her and ambled away for a waiting coach. On the other side of her, Constable Burton gave a little snort.

“Spoken like a solicitor; I suppose he’ll bill you for the time anyway.”

“It’s likely,” Edith agreed, “but I’m sure he’s also working for the buyers too.”

“Kentley Mining Company,” Burton acknowledged. “Once the house is clear they’ll be putting charges along the inside pillars and supporting walls of the Hall to bring it down. Going to take a while to lay them all, though, especially down in those cellars.”

“Won’t that . . . block up the mines?” Edith wanted to know.

“I’m sure it will, but with clay that liquid, it will also force it out some of the other shafts, and draw more of it up along the other mines,” he told her. “At least that’s what I’ve heard. A pity Sir Thomas didn’t consider dynamite over his machinery.”

Edith gave the constable a sidelong look; he returned it with a small smile. She rose and made her way slowly towards the gate; various groups were sitting around the lawn unpacking provisions and a few vendors were selling meat pies and bottles of stout to customers who’d chosen to spend the lunch hour in place.

Reaching Thomas, she spoke quietly to him. “Are you all right?”

“I . . . am,” he assured her, pulling his cap lower and holding out a wind-up duck that Edith pretended to consider. “It’s been an interesting morning.”

“That it has,” she agreed. “At this rate Mr. Mensinger may have the entire house cleared by nightfall.”

“Yes. Father Martin has arranged for the remains to be moved from the family mausoleum,” Thomas sighed. “He will re-inter C-Charles properly in the infant’s section of St. Kentigern, which is a great comfort to me.”

Edith discreetly rubbed his arm as she turned the duck over. A slightly grubby little girl wandered over and Edith handed her the duck. The child hesitated then took it, beaming.

“Thank ‘ou,” she whispered and scampered off.  
Edith watched her for a moment and turned back. Thomas however was staring at the house, his profile apprehensive.

A cloud passed over the sun, darkening the sky and grass around them. 

“She’s there,” he murmured. “I can _sense_ her, Edith. She’s there, waiting.”


	14. Chapter 14

The sky darkened to a sullen lead grey, and the rain that had been threatening to fall all day finally did in the late afternoon, just as the auction ended. The few last minute buyers cursed and ran to protect their newly acquired property as Edith and Constable Burton made their way to one of the waiting carriages near the gates. Discreetly, Burton herded the one-eyed man into the vehicle before him, and after giving instructions to the driver, settled himself in the seat opposite the other two passengers.

“Mr. . . . Cavendish,” Burton rumbled lightly extending a hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Sir,” the other man shook it, looking completely at ease, which would have been odd in other circumstances, Burton knew. But the man before him was no longer a glib aristocrat, nor a sullen resentful gentleman on the way down the social ladder. Instead, Burton saw a lean shabbily dressed individual now aware of his circumstances and grateful for the petite woman leaning against his shoulder.

The love between them was clear, and Burton envied it a tiny bit, wishing his own dear Nell was still alive. He cleared his throat. “I’ve given the driver instructions to take you wherever you wish to go in Archon Town once we have seen Mrs. Sharpe to her door.”

“Thank you,” the other man murmured, and began to fish out coins from his vest pocket, but Burton halted him.

“No need, sir. You gave a set of tin soldiers to my sister’s boy several months ago; consider this a good deed returned.”

The other man smiled then, and Burton nodded. The carriage began to move, and as it did, squelching through the blood-colored mud, a heavy rumble of thunder vibrated in the wet air. Inside, Burton shook his head, knowing that some of the more superstitious folk from the auction would see it as a sign.

“That’s that, I suppose. Oh, in the matter of the former Lady Lucille Sharpe, her cremated remains _had_ been scheduled to be interred in the potter’s field near the banks of the Caldew, north of Carlisle, but because of the delays in the investigation that has not happened.”

He watched as the couple opposite him glanced at each other uncertainly. Finally Mrs. Sharpe spoke. “Where is she now?”

“In my office safe, actually. I took the liberty of collecting her remains from the undertaker for safekeeping until you made a decision concerning them.”

“S-she may stay there for the time being,” Cavendish murmured. “Although I believe we shall collect them soon.”

“As you wish. I’ve already signed off on the case, and delivered my final report to the proper authorities. And there is the _other_ matter of declaring Sir Thomas Sharpe dead of course. Legally the balance of probabilities weigh heavily to the likelihood that he _is_ and I’ve stated so firmly in my findings; but all the same, perhaps an extended trip out of England might be shall we say, therapeutic?”

Again he watched the two of them glance at each other, saw them share another smile.

“Greece,” Cavendish murmured.

“Spain,” Mrs. Sharpe replied. “Someplace warm and sunny.”

Again thunder rumbled in the sky, as if protesting her words; all of them looked up towards the top of the carriage, and dimly Burton wondered if perhaps the superstitious might have a point in this particular case.

*** *** ***

Edith woke with a flinch, straining her ears to catch whatever it was that had woken her. The bedroom was quiet; only the hiss of the rain outside and the distant ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs reached her.

She stayed still. 

Very still.

Dim shadows and light barred the walls, a pattern created by the streetlamp outside. Edith stared, keeping her breathing light, trying to ignore her pulse, which beat hard and quick at her temples.

Something moved.

 _Ghost?_ She thought, looking towards the bedroom door.  
For long moments Edith stared, waiting.

A quick glitter flashed in her face and she flinched back, knocking pillows askew; one fell on the water glass on the nightstand, spilling it but Edith didn’t notice.

_ColdsilvercutknifeLUCILLE!_

Then,

Nothing.

The rain continued to fall; the distant clock ticked.

Edith climbed out of bed on shaky legs, stepping into the puddle on the carpet, one foot kicking her fallen spectacles. She wobbled, nudging her wet book and the other fallen items before righting herself.

 _M I N E_ echoed ever so faintly in a shadow of a whisper, a smoky trail of a sigh.

In her head, or had she actually heard it? 

Edith couldn’t tell. She straightened up, watching for movement as she wondered what to do. Fight? Flee?

“I’m not afraid of you,” she announced in a thin voice to the room. “And he’s _not_ yours! Not anymore!”

Nothing. Edith felt something run down her cheek. She raised a hand to touch her face and it came away wet. 

Dark.

Turning for the vanity, she looked at her reflection there in the dim light, aware of a fresh sting as she watched the newly opened scar on her cheek bleed.

 

The faintest of chuckles drifted around the dark bedroom.

*** *** ***

He saw it the moment he opened the door of his sanctuary and Edith tried to turn her face, but Thomas caught her chin lightly and tipped her head to the overcast dawn all the better to examine the scab.

“Edith! My _God,_ she--” Thomas began in a worried voice, but Edith impatiently squirmed out of his grip to meet his somber gaze.

“Yes. I didn’t see her, but I know it was Lucille. I’m not sure _how,_ and I’m not sure why _now,_ but her intentions are clear. Ours must be too.”

Thomas narrowed his gaze, nodding. “Yes. The sooner the better. I propose we bring Allerdale Hall down ourselves. _Today._ ”

Startled, Edith stared at her husband, who returned the look with a little smile, adding. “We _can,_ you know; I am an engineer. Calculating the needed number of dynamite bundles, laying the charges, running the wire to the blasting box—it would take time, but it _can_ be done in a single day.”

Something in his honest gaze steadied her; Thomas had strength now to the set of his shoulders that helped calm some of the fears inside her. Edith drew in a breath, seriously considering his words. “We may well get into trouble for it. The property isn’t really ours anymore.”

“The property is coming down anyway,” Thomas countered. “Part of the reason I attended the auction was to find out for myself what Kentley had planned to do. Right now they intend to bring down Allerdale Hall on Tuesday, but they’ve already brought in some of the equipment, which is sitting at the depot. If you and I can acquire what’s necessary we could do it today, while everyone is either at Sunday services, or inside, waiting for the rain to cease.”

They stared at each other for a long moment; Thomas cupped her wounded cheek with one gentle hand. Edith knew he would listen to her, would do whatever she suggested.

“ _If_ we do it,” she began slowly, “then there’s no turning back, Thomas. We put all of it together in the house. The piano _and_ her . . . remains.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And the ring, I suppose.”

“The . . . ohh! You’ve had it _with_ you this entire time?” Edith whispered in shock. “Thomas, is that the _tether?_ ”

Thomas flinched in realization, uttering a curse at himself. “Of _course!_ I’m a fool, an idiot! I should have realized it earlier! Edith, that’s _how_ she could follow me, track me like prey!” He darted down the room to his workshop table, pulling open the little drawers on it in a mad search that ended seconds later as he fished out the piece of jewelry and held it with two fingers, as if expecting to be burned.

“The ring,” Edith murmured, remembering all too well when Lucille had ripped it off her finger. Even now her joint and knuckle hurt, and looking at the lurid crimson cabochon made her shudder. “I . . . I never liked it.”

“Nor I,” he admitted, fishing around for a scrap of cloth to wrap it in. “I suppose it must have slipped off her finger when she lowered me to the floor, and gotten trapped in my shirt. And of course it was too valuable for a mere toymaker to sell it. Accursed thing.”

Edith reached out a hand and he dropped the little bundle into it. She tucked it into her purse, aware of it there, hating it. As she looked up, Thomas swooped in and kissed her.

“I sold my _own_ —” he held up empty right hand, “for my first tools. After this my darling, we shall find a pair for ourselves with no history to them but our own, yes?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Now, what do we need to do?”


	15. Chapter 15

The hardest part was collecting Lucille’s ashes; Edith knew the constable was curious about her request, coming as soon as it did and on a Sunday to boot, but he’d obliged, handing over the paper-wrapped urn and signing off on the tag that dangled from the string around the top.

“We’ve found the perfect place for her,” Edith managed, putting the odious package into a cotton mesh tote so she wouldn’t have to touch it. “I’m sure she’ll be happy there.”

“As you say,” Burton replied uncertainly before seeing her out to her carriage.

That had been hours ago; now she and Thomas were driving Father Martin’s buggy along the steep road to Allerdale Hall, the pair of them grim and quiet. The rain had varied throughout the morning but had never stopped, making the ride a slow, sloggy affair. On the floor of the vehicle lay various burlap sacks holding a variety of tools and the recently pilfered Kentley equipment that Thomas had taken from the boxes sitting at the depot.

“It’s always closed on Sunday, and picking the lock was simple,” he’d explained to her. “Guilty as I feel about the theft, if we succeed it will all be worth it.”

“ _When_ we succeed,” Edith corrected carefully. 

Thomas nodded, flashing her his slightly crooked smile. “When,” he echoed.

They’d left Hero with Father Martin; a common habit but both the priest and the pup had sensed that this time was different. Father Martin had willingly lent his buggy, but he blessed it, and did the same for both of them, drawing a quick cross on each of their foreheads with his thumb.

“Tell me nothing,” he had ordered, “and then I can do the same if anyone asks me questions later. And on an unrelated note, if you are attempting to lay your ghost to rest—not that I know _anything_ about that—then it’s wise to make sure you have both remains and anchors, whatever they may be.”

Edith had taken a breath and nodded. “Yes, that’s definitely something we will keep in mind.” She had pressed a thick fold of fifty pound notes into his hand. “Consider this a . . . donation to replace your buggy. That is, if something should . . . happen to it.”

Father Martin had narrowed his eyes but didn’t object, tucking the money away and sighing. He had held Hero and watched them ride off nearly two hours ago, and Edith wished she was back with them.

Courage. She supposed she had it, but it never felt as if she did, Edith thought. Instead, she hung onto what she knew she did have. Stubbornness for one thing. Part of that came from her father of course, but part of it was her own. And a competitive streak too, that would help. Edith thought over all the little battles she’d had with Lucille, all the conflicts before matters had flared so monstrously out of control that last night.

The fights over tea, the standoff over the keys, the orders not to explore parts of the house, the endless interruptions of moments with Thomas—Edith pressed her lips together firmly. _You want Allerdale Hall, Lucille?_ She thought, _Well you may have it, but Thomas is choosing **me.**_

The house rose before them on the wet landscape, looming dark through the rain, gloomy in the grey light. Edith forced herself to stare at it for lingering moments before turning to look at Thomas.

He too was staring at the house, his hands tight on the reins, his profile as pale as a carved ivory cameo.

“I _hate_ it!” he hissed suddenly. “It stands there like one enormous tomb, Edith, sucking in souls like an ever-hungry ghoul. I spent so many years inside it, up close and within its walls, never seeing it for what it really _is._ Going away from this house is what’s given me the true perspective, getting out from under its shadows and blood clay, away from its wheezing and open maw . . .”

“Thomas,” she murmured, bringing him out of his moment of ire.

He gave himself a little shake and drew a breath, letting the emotion go and managing a smile. “Sorry. It’s still difficult not to . . . resent the place.” After a beat Thomas added in a lower voice, “being angry helps build my courage.”

That, she understood. Edith laid her head on his shoulder, whispering, “I’m here.”

They reached the gates; Edith found the right key on the ring and unlocked the rusted iron gate while Thomas tried to soothe the mare. The mare flared her nostrils at the creak of the gates but grudging pulled the buggy through the water-filled ruts of the drive, stepping slowly into the boggy track. The muddy evidence of the auction lay littered about: timbers and paper, broken rope and a few empty stout bottles here and there.

They drove on, getting closer to the manor itself, and the wind mourned through the long, wet grass. Edith felt a new chill touch her, one that had nothing to do with temperature; next to her, Thomas stiffened.

“We’re here,” he muttered. “Together.”

They dismounted and unloaded the buggy stacking everything on the abandoned auctioneer’s dais, and then Thomas walked the mare out to midway down the lawn, tethering her and the buggy to the lone tree before walking back. Edith didn’t watch him, preferring to keep her eyes on Allerdale Hall instead. 

She was afraid, she knew. Yes, that light-headed fear that left a person almost giddy. Edith was afraid and relished it; hung onto it because she knew it would keep her alive. Carefully she pulled out the keys and unlocked the front door, pushing it open as Thomas reached her side.

It swung open, wind sweeping through, hurling rain and detritus into their faces and driving them back a step. When they could see again, the wet waterfall of rain dripping through the hole in the roof met their gaze, as did the ominous puddle of blood-colored mud that now covered the first floor, glittering in the filtered light.

Edith felt Thomas’ hand slide into hers. “Are you ready?” he asked, his voice low and tight.

“Yes,” she replied in the first lie she’d ever told her husband.

“We stay together,” Thomas murmured. “Together. First thing to do is see what Kentley may have laid out and check the load-bearing walls.”

Hand in hand they walked forward. Edith thought the house looked more menacing without the furniture; a skeleton of hard bones and fangs now, empty of everything but a lingering miasma of evil.

There were odd bundles on the walls, rough canvas pockets nailed in certain locations; spotting them Thomas nodded approvingly. “They’ve done the preliminaries then. All we need do is fill them with the explosives and roll out the cable. This helps tremendously.”

When they turned to the living room, she spotted the piano. Someone had shoved it into a corner and the upholstered bench lay on its side nearby, one leg broken.

Thomas spotted it as well, looking at it a long bleak moment before speaking. “There it is. I worried that someone might take it after the auction.”

“It’s not exactly something you can lift through the window,” Edith pointed out. Her practical tone made him smile, briefly.

“So, the pouches are here on the first floor,” he murmured. “Given the open space of the mines below, the charges here should be enough to collapse and draw down the house. We’ll lay out the explosives, we can bring in . . . the rest, and that should be that.”

He sounded more confident than Edith felt, but she nodded. “All right. We don’t have much time until sunset though.”

A groan startled them both; wind shook the house. Thomas wrapped a protective arm around Edith’s shoulders and stared around. “Nothing.”

“Yet,” Edith added in an undertone.

Working quickly, they filled the canvas pockets and hooked up the charge cable, linking each one to the main cable that Thomas unrolled in a long line out the front door and halfway out onto the lawn. The rain had begun lessen but the wind was stronger now whipping around them. Thomas wedged the blast box between an abandoned board and a depression in the grass, deftly looping the wires to the terminals.

“The blast box won’t work until the handle is turned and plunged,” he told Edith. “Then the charge will ignite the dynamite. Since the charges are inside the building, the house should collapse on itself—very little outward blast.”

She knew he was whistling in the dark, that talking about the mechanics was keeping him from fear. Edith nodded and rose when he did, both of them looking once again to Allerdale Hall, the gothic bones of it stretching up against the sky.

Thomas reeled Edith in, pulling her close, cupping her face, speaking urgently. “She’s been waiting. Lucille has been lulling us into confidence and now--”

“Now,” Edith agreed. “We must face her.”

Thomas carried the urn; Edith held the ring. They slowly mounted the stairs and walked through the door into sudden and eerie silence.

No wind.

No rain. 

Edith felt the ghost before she saw it, the rush of ice through her so deep and quick it burned. She gave a little cry.

_Thomassss_ The voice called softly, beseechingly. _Thomasssss_

Drifting towards them came the dark beauty of Lucille Sharpe.  
Edith bit her lips hard enough to draw blood. In life Lucille had been handsome; in death she had taken on an ethereal sensuality that added to her dark glamour. Her black hair flowed over her barely covered shoulders and her pouting smile was for Thomas alone.

Thomas’ hand tightened its grip in hers. “We have come to put you to rest, Lucille. Once and for all time,” he told his sister, his voice shaking slightly.

_Rest with me, Thomas. You are mine, I am yours, never apart._ Edith heard the seductive tone and fought a shudder.

“N-not _yours._ Not anymore,” Thomas managed, breaking his gaze with his sister. “I am my _own_ man, Lucille!”

_I gave you everything of me Thomas. My heart and soul. my **body.** You took it often enough._ The ghost accused.

“I . . . did, but I didn’t know any better at the start. You . . . used _me._ And later . . . later was my own blind folly! That I claim as my _own_ mistake.” Thomas muttered. He held up the urn. “What you gave to me, I give _back,_ Lucille! Ever I loved you once, but now I love Edith.”

Lightning flashed in a bolt of light so bright it blinded. Edith blinked, trying to see Lucille, and realizing she’d lost her grip on Thomas’ hand. “Thomas!”

Nothing. Edith groped her way forward, her vision returning slowly. Nobody was in the main hall but herself.

“Thomas!” she called, and darted to the living room.

He stood there, frozen. Blood flowed down the gash on his cheek pouring down his face, and out the corners of his mouth. Around him, Lucille wound herself, rubbing against him the way an affectionate cat would.

_You have me and I have you again. So weak, Thomas. Give in and I will make you happy. I’m here. All that I love is here._  
One of her spectral hands slid to his throat, long fingers encircling it.

Edith lurched forward, grabbing Thomas by the waist, tugging him. He shifted, the spell broken for a moment, his one eye wide with panic. “No!”

The ghost drifted a few feet away, amused. _I will win, Edith._

“No!” Edith took the urn and threw it at the piano; it struck the propping bar and tumbled into the strings as the lid slammed down with an enormous crash of chords. Fumbling quickly, Edith reached into her purse to retrieve the ring, throwing that as well. It hit the piano and bounced to the wooden floor, lost from sight. “Take what’s yours; I’m taking what’s mine!”

Lucille laughed, but after a second she stopped, looking alarmed. More lightning, but this time the light flashed outside. 

Edith wrapped an arm around Thomas, breathing hard. He clung to her, trying to push her behind him.

_NO_

Not from Lucille. Edith strained to look around.

_NO_

From the floor, from the walls, drifting down from the ceiling. Ghastly. Wet. Grim. Figures that Edith recognized were moving towards Lucille with slow determination.

A strange gratitude flooded Edith and she tugged on Thomas, trying to get him to move. He seemed dazed, uncertain, and it took a moment for him to understand her actions. Edith tugged harder, pulling him back to the main hall as the other ghosts of Allerdale Hall moved to surround Lucille. 

She cried out. _I’m still with you! I will **find** you!_

Edith shoved Thomas, who finally shook his head, flinging blood as he did so. “The urn? The r-ring?”

“With her. We need to go. NOW!”

Thomas staggered a bit, but nodded. “Yes. Now. The blast box . . .”

Edith pushed him to the door, and turned to look back. Lucille stood ringed by the twisted specters, unable to pass through them and yet looking pleased.

Something burned against her hip. Edith fished into her pocket, and touched the ice-cold key ring, pulling it out, taking a broken breath as realization dawned on her.

“Keys!” she hissed to herself “The keys!” 

That certainly explained the haunting, Edith realized. Burton had given them to her at the auction, and they’d been on her nightstand . . . She wrapped her hand around the icy metal of them, letting the ring burn her skin for a moment.

“ _Your_ house, _your_ ring, _your_ keys!” she yelled, throwing the ring across the hall. It landed with a wet ‘splat’ in the mud. 

“MY Thomas!” With that, Edith turned and ran out of the house, down the steps and across the lawn.

Thomas knelt at the blast box. The blood dripping under his eyepatch had slowed, but not stopped, and more blood leaked around his chest to stain his shirt. “Now. It must be now!” he called out over the wind.

Edith knelt by him, helped to twist the plunger, her hand on top of his as they shoved it down.

For several long seconds nothing happened. 

Then soft muffled explosions shattered the windows, sending glitters of glass out, and with a slow, terrible sigh, the bottom floor of Allerdale Hall crumbled. Just as they began to fall, a tremendous bolt of lightning hit, and the crack of thunder made both Edith and Thomas fall back onto the wet grass.

She lay there a moment, and then groped for Thomas’ hand, forcing herself to lean over his prone form. “Thomas? Thomas!”

He came back to consciousness slowly, his one eye blinking as he struggled to sit up. “Bleeding. From the old stab wounds . . . Edith!” 

She turned to look where Thomas was staring.

The remains of Allerdale Hall were on fire.


	16. Chapter 16

_FRESH TRAGEDY AT ALLERDALE HALL!_ The headline screamed. In smaller type under that: _Fire Guts Sunken Remains of Sharpe Ancestral Home; Lightning to Blame._ The story ran under it, along with an ink drawing of the charred remains of the building. Edith read the story over the scrubbed table in the sanctuary, feeling glad she’d told her household staff she was going on a trip to Glasgow for the week. Undoubtedly someone from the broadsheets would figure out it was a lie, but by the time they had, she’d be back and would be arranging to leave England.

Although it might be a while yet, Edith acknowledged to herself. She looked to the alcove bed where Thomas lay asleep, his wounds re-bandaged. Near him on the quilt, Hero slept too, occasionally snuffling before settling down again. Edith set the paper down, rubbing her eyes.

It had been a rough time, trying to get away from Allerdale Hall in the aftermath. The terrified mare had tried to run, and Thomas had fought to control her, bleeding profusely even as he managed to do so. Edith remembered every bump, every sway and bounce of the buggy back through the windy, smoky twilight. Halfway to Archon Town they’d heard St. Kentigern’s church bell begin to toll, along with those of other churches throughout Cumbria, the heavy chimes of alarm riding on the wild, wild wind. Only by luck had they made it into the churchyard where Father Martin met them, and half-carried Thomas to sanctuary, tending his wounds with Edith’s help.

“He’s warmer this time, and stronger,” the priest had muttered, staunching the blood flow with bandages. “I have faith. In the meantime I _must_ go and see what’s to be done at the Hall. Stay here and rest.”

That had been nearly two days ago and Thomas had barely stirred since then. Edith had curled at his side and slept, had done what few chores there were to do, but it was clear to her that the best thing for her husband was time.

She wrote. Edith compiled notes and edited little pieces she’d begun from the observations she’d made at the auction. She made lists and wrote letters, hoping to reassure Alan before he heard about what happened to the manor house and tried to return to England. The absurdity of trying to maintain a cheerful tone didn’t escape her, and Edith laughed to herself as she signed the missive.

Alan. He’d never understand. Despite his initial comments about ghosts, Edith knew he’d never see one, never quite believe in them. She hadn’t told him about her own associations and now of course never would. Edith truly hoped he would find someone to make him a good wife, a good mother to his children, and that through his life, he’d never be troubled by ghosts himself.  
She took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes, feeling tired but strong, pleased that the last tie to an old life was gone, and that she and Thomas had broken it together. 

“E-Edith?” came the soft plea. Quickly Edith rose and moved to Thomas, sitting on the edge of the bed to study his wan face as he looked up at her with his good eye.

“Thomas. You’re back. Again.” Came her tease as she brushed a hand through his hair.

He smiled, dimples bracketing his mouth, his lean frame relaxing against the mattress. “I am, and glad of it. What time is it?”

“Tuesday afternoon,” Edith told him, amused to see his surprise. “Shhh, stay still; you’re not in any shape to move around.”

He winced a little, reaching a hand up to stroke her cheek in return. “Uhnn, yes. Are we . . . safe?”

Edith nodded. “Yes. Father Martin and I took care of you. Allerdale Hall was not so lucky; it’s gone, burned and half-sunk into the ground, like a broken tooth. Everyone believes it was struck by lightning, although Constable Burton thinks vandals may have had something to do with it . . . apparently there was a burglary at the depot.” She said this with as straight a face as she could manage, but the corner of her mouth went up ever so slightly.

“Shocking,” Thomas murmured. “Does he have any suspects?”

“Not a one, although he did say he was following up on several suspicious characters from the auction. Are you hungry?”

Thomas admitted he was, so Edith brought him broth to drink slowly. He was able to sit up, and Hero tried to sit in his lap but Edith set the dog down on the floor to give her husband room.

“I suppose the question becomes, ‘what next?’” Thomas murmured solemnly over his mug. “I still have two hundred and twenty toys to make—a promise I intend to fulfill, but beyond that . . . I have nothing to offer you, Edith. No land or property, no wealth or home, chattel or goods to my name, which died with the man I was.”

Edith gave him a slightly exasperated look. “You’ve given me _yourself_ , which is no small treasure, and the only thing I ever wanted from you, Thomas. Land, property, wealth, goods . . . I’ve more than enough as it is, and it’s now ours. Father Martin can even baptize you and marry us if you want to become Thomas Cavendish legally.”

He stared up at her. “All that. You would agree to all that?”

“I do like to see things through,” she replied with a bittersweet smile, “and now that we have very little to keep us here . . .”

Thomas nodded. “I would like to see . . . my son interred properly, but beyond that, yes. Nothing further ties us here.”

“All right then,” Edith agreed. “Now the exciting question . . . where would you like to go?”

He smiled again, this one so full of tenderness that Edith felt herself blush. “ _Anywhere._ Anywhere in the world as long as we’re together, my love.”

A more perfect answer wasn’t possible, and Edith kissed him to seal the moment.

*** *** ***

They married again; a ceremony lightly smaller than the first since only Constable Burton and Hero were there to witness it, but in an atmosphere of greater joy. Edith wore gold, and Thomas grey; The record book of St. Kentigern’s listed the nuptials under the names Cushing-Cavendish in Edith’s lovely handwriting.

Edith and Thomas spent their wedding night in Manchester, so utterly enthralled with each other that they missed their train to London by nearly two days. In London Edith presented Mr. Myle’s letter of recommendation to his associates and proceeded to re-arrange her substantial fortune and holdings into joint custody for herself and her new husband, Thomas Cavendish. 

The clerks and typists at the law office thought them a delightful couple, so clearly in love, although it was a pity about those matching scars . . . 

_Paris, a year:_ Thomas learned to make puppets, working with marionette artists and woodworkers. Edith sold short stories to three magazines, and received encouragement from several editors on her novel. Alan sent congratulations on her wedding along with an ornate ceramic soup tureen so large Thomas threatened to bathe Hero in it.

 _Lisbon sixteen months:_ Edith began her second novel while they explored the seaside fortresses and sampled fiery wines. Thomas found a kitten curled up in his boot one morning and Puff, a full-maned grey tabby became a part of the household, much to Hero’s confusion. The first novel sold to a publisher in Glasgow; Edith and Thomas celebrated by investing in a typewriter.

 _Seville, seven months:_ Thomas finished his three hundredth toy, which was a set of rolling trains painted in circus colors; it became a gift to a little girl he spotted looking out a hospital window. He visited clock and watchmakers, studying the mechanics of smaller and smaller gears, investing in a loup and delicate tools with Puff wandering through his workshop. Edith saw ghosts dancing at the Cemetery of San Fernando de Sevilla and put them in a love story that ran as a serial in the newspapers. She and Thomas invested in a few vineyards and a shipbuilding company.

 _Zakynthos:_ The villa overlooked the endless blue of the Mediterranean; Edith loved the clear jewel tones of water and sky. A simple house but expansive; room enough for a high ceilinged study and an airy workshop along with all the other needed spaces of a home. A sprightly crone came to cook and clean three times a week, her two plump granddaughters light and quick as they did the linens and polished the smooth wooden floors.

They had their first child, a healthy son, and named him Roger Carter Cavendish. He was joined two years later with a sister named Alice and a year after that with another sister named Jane. Thomas made toys for them all, took them on walks to the beach and read to them. Edith played endless games with their children, rocked them to sleep and brushed their hair.

Hero died, and the family mourned. Puff seemed lost and brought home two fuzzy puppies a few months later. A parrot joined the household, much to Edith’s amusement since it insisted on living in her study. She and Thomas made love in secret corners of the house, and wrote each other notes.

Years went by, many of them. Roger, Alice and Jane grew up; Thomas and Edith grew older. The blue of the sea still delighted them, and there were mornings when they would slip out at dawn together to walk barefoot on the sand and gather a few shells. 

Ghost stories were love stories, Edith decided, and the best of love stories had ghosts in them.

The end


End file.
